


Moments Lost

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Dark, M/M, Suicidal Dean, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Time Travelling Winchesters, dark themes, temporary major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 17:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11407092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: Sam's gone, Dean's barely holding on, and Castiel - well, Castiel's left nursing a man who's already given up.When Dean decides The Empty would be preferable to a life without his brother, Castiel has to find a way to scrub the red from his clothes and fix the world, a world that needs the Winchesters.It takes a deal with a deity who wants nothing more than to see the Winchesters burn, a reforming of old friendships, and an alliance with an unholy creature to bring Sam back into play and stop Dean making a cataclysmic mistake (again).Now, all that's stopping the universe being shredded is a group of individuals that make absolutely no sense: two desperate and dishevelled Hunters, one half flaccid Angel, and a Demon who doesn't know which side of the fence he's sitting on any more.Can Dean let go of this Sam? Will Crowley finally pick a side? Can Castiel live with his guilt? Who knows, but one thing is set in stone: The Winchesters and their family never give up without a fight and they'll take whoever they need to, down with them.





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stormbrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbrite/gifts).



> Written for my spn_j2_bigbang. I have so MANY people to thank, not least of all my beautiful and brilliant artist stormbrite for picking this piece and having faith it wouldn’t suck. Turned out she really liked it and came up with some freaking awesome shiny to go with it, thank you bb, it was a pleasure, and a privilege! Here's her artwork - https://archiveofourown.org/works/11307882
> 
> All of the peeps who helped this thing actually be born; stir_of_echoes and jj1564 for not laughing so very loudly at me when I sent them both an email which said, “BB Dream!” in the subject title, and for beta’ing beyond the point of sanity (jj1564) and read throughs, tireless read throughs and pompom waving and encouragement (stir_of_echoes) plus the_rant_girl and theatregirl7299 for reading the whole damned thing top to bottom for me, telling me what worked and didn’t <3<3<3 siennavie for the last minute “So, I really don't get a sneak peek at the whole story?” and “Tee hee hee. *sing songs* I get an early copy. I feel like a VIP” and extreme help with the posting summary, Bb I heart you! As for miss sw0rdy - thank you so much for putting up with my constant whining griping and waffling on the subject. I must have bored the PANTS off you. Same goes for alexisjane who basically held my hand and told me to suck it up <3 final thanks go to masja_17 for her last look through and edit, man you saved me such a headache, love you bb x
> 
> All of you, thank you! <3
> 
> And lastly, to a show that adheres to only two rules; if it’s interesting we’re gonna write it, and if we wanna read it, it should be written. Aren’t they great rules? Thanks SPN for the best most brain intriguing show out there, still!
> 
> As for wendy - well this woman deserves monuments and statues in her name for running an exchange that year after year brings joy to artists, authors and readers alike <3

Sam knows beyond a shadow of any doubt he’s ever admitted to; this is the end.

Wickedly sharp talons tear chunks of flesh from Sam’s already shredded back and he suddenly understands what it is to reach your very own finish line.

Sure, they’ve met Death face to face. They’ve chatted over Cronuts and Beer with a being who wields the deadliest farming equipment known to man, but they’ve never categorically _seen_ the full stop at the end of their own sentence.

As he fights for consciousness, Sam realises he only has one chance left to tell Dean how he feels, how he _actually_ feels.

Shoving what used to be his hand inside what’s left of his jeans pocket, Sam scrapes another layer of skin from his fingers. “ _Fuck_ ”

Curling into a ball, Sam hits speed dial and talks as fast as his battered body, and the beast still ripping him to pieces, will allow.

“Dean, listen - **fuck** \- I don’t have much time. I just... I have to tell you... “

*******************

Dean comes careening through rusty wrought iron gates in the Impala just as his voicemail tone pings in his breast pocket.

He jams the phone to his ear as he throws himself from the car.

“Dean, listen - **fuck** \- I don’t have much time.”

That’s all Dean hears, all he needs to hear, before he’s taking off on foot; boots pounding out his fear as he kicks up dust and gravel.

All he sees are teeth and claws; row upon row of viscera coated fangs that glint maroon in the moonlight. “Sammy!”

*******************

The acrid scent of burning flesh hangs heavy in the air as Dean drags his ruined body across jagged shards of crushed rocks and gravel. “SAMMY!”

Layer upon layer of stomach churning flavours fester at the back of Dean’s throat because he absolutely refuses to shut his mouth and stop screaming his brother’s name. “ **SAMMY!** ”

A mist of blood, sweat and seared flesh adhere themselves to his tonsils, making him gag and spit, and still Dean won’t give up. “ _ **SAMMY!**_ ”

Only when he finally lays broken fingers upon long legs twisted at right angles to the body still twitching above them, do Dean’s words dry up.

The picture Sam’s desecrated remains create is one of pain and sorrow, of a battle so hard fought and lost so spectacularly that no one and nothing will be able to put _Humpty_ back together again.

It’s all Dean can do not to lay down in the mess of vital fluids and let fate take him.

Cradling Sam’s head in his arms, Dean lays wet uncoordinated kisses along a blood saturated hairline. “Please. _Please_. You promised. You said you’d stay. You **PROMISED**.”

*******************

Castiel sits with a bowl full of steaming hot chicken soup perched precariously on his knees as he tries to cajole spoonfuls between Dean’s downturned lips. “Dean. You must eat.”

“Why?”

“Because Sam would n - “

Dean’s up and out of his chair before Castiel knows what’s hit him and the Angel is suddenly covered in scorching hot liquid, complete with chunks of meat now festooned about his very soggy person.

The quiet calm despair Dean’s been using as a shield for weeks finally gives way to the boiling hot rage now bubbling up in the face of one of their - _his_ \- best friends. “Don’t. **Don’t**. Not another word. If _he_ were here I’d probably kill him all over again for leaving me with someone who thinks it’s _okay_ to use my dead brother as an excuse to get me fed and watered. As it _is_ it’s just me, and so help me Go - So help me, I’ll beat you until your wings bend backwards if you **ever** use his name like that again. We clear?”

The violence and outrage doesn’t make Dean feel any less alone, and it certainly won’t bring his brother back, or paper over the ever widening cracks in his and Castiel’s relationship, but he’s no longer capable of controlling his fury filled rampages.

They come crashing down on him like a tonne of acme bricks, threatening to grind to dust his already broken heart.

One minute Dean’s silently staring into nothingness, the very next he’s willing to wrap his fingers around any living neck and _squeeze_ if it will only make the gnawing festering ache in the pit of his stomach, disappear.

Dean knows he’s losing it.

No, scratch that, he’s lost it.

It’s just a matter of _when_.

When will he finally admit there’s nothing left for him here but a slightly used and abused Angel who’s skewed halo has lost it’s shiny, and a Demon who’s never sure which side of the fence he likes to swing from?

Sam would be horrified.

Sam would kick his ass.

What Sam **would** do doesn’t matter anymore because Sam isn’t _here_.

*************

Castiel hasn’t laid eyes on Dean in days.

The Hunter’s been hiding away in Sam’s room; locked in with dirty clothing and leftover food cartons, refusing to acknowledge there’s a world still spinning outside the door.

Castiel’s not entirely sure how the cloying scent of fermenting salad leaves and kale smoothies are meant to be comforting, but the Angel isn’t willing to push Dean, not when he’s hovering dangerously close to a razor sharp edge.

If Dean topples, if he decides there’s no point in the _fight_ , Castiel doesn’t know what his world will become.

As selfish as it sounds, Dean isn’t the only one to have lost Sam and right now it feels like the Angel is completely alone in the Universe because Dean ceased to be the second Sam’s heart stopped beating.

Standing deathly still outside Sam’s door, Castiel lays both palms out flat against chipped and scarred oak. “I am so sorry, Dean.”

Castiel desperately wishes Dean would fling open the door and start raging at him. Throwing insults and expletives. Shouting the odds over interrupting a grieving process that doesn’t belong solely to the Hunter.

But there’s nothing. No anger, no despair. Just the steady sound of Dean’s breathing; heavy and slow.

******************

Dean knows Castiel is hovering in the hallway. He can feel the Angel’s concerning curling beneath the door, like smoke from a house fire. The Hunter can hear whispered words of regret and solace echoing along the corridor and it hangs heavy in the air around him, making it almost impossible to breathe.

The sentiment behind the words is crisp, clear and pure, and it’s just loud enough to give Dean a headache which pulses mercilessly at his temples.

The problem is, Sammy’s far louder.

Dean must have lost his god damned mind.

It’s all but crumbled into spongy unrecognisable pieces that tumble around inside his head, making his eyes swim with images that can’t possibly be real.

Thing is, this late in the game, this far past the point of insanity, Dean can’t bring himself to care.

So what if he’s talking to himself?

Dean’s fully aware that the vision of his brother's face - see-through, shimmering in the light, dust motes floating right through his sickly sweet smile - cannot be trusted.

Long legs crossed, chin resting atop his hands, hair tumbling into intense hazel eyes.

Not fucking possible.

But Dean doesn’t care.

_”You could come, you know.”_

“I know, I will, I just need - time.“

Dean dismisses every one of his finely tuned instincts in order to cling to the pretense and possibility that Sam is actually here, offering a way out of the grief he’s been drowning in for what seems like an eternity.

Sam, his Sam, the very real, very aggravating and holier than thou version he’s come to adore more than words could possibly express - _That_ Sam would **never** encourage this.

That Sam spent his final moments begging Dean to carry on without him.

Selfish bastard.

Dean’s sure this is his brain’s way of coping with the idea that he is going to do the unthinkable, but there’s a comfort to this madness. It blankets him, wraps itself around his heart and mind and blocks out all coherency, all pain.

He _wants_ to pretend Sam’s waiting for him on the other side.

Even if it’s all a big fat fucking lie.

Billie will make damned sure that the Winchesters never lay eyes on each other ever again.

The only thing stopping Dean from ripping through the veil and tearing the Reaper to pieces is the fact that if Sam _is_ in the Empty, he isn’t suffering. He’s just nothing.

Dean longs for nothing.

He craves the darkness and the blankness of a void in existence.

Shaking his head and sighing, Dean leans forward, whispers into Faux-Sam’s face. “I’m scared.”

The apparition which proves Dean’s marbles have officially rolled off the edge of the table, leans in too. If he wasn’t completely see-through their foreheads would be touching. As it is there’s a chill against Dean’s skin that causes an all over body shudder.

_“Don’t be, I’m here. I’ll stay with you.”_

It’s now or fucking never.

Dean either wants off the merry-go-round of rage and regret, or he’s going to have to live with the gaping hole in his chest for the rest of his very fucked up life.

Sam is gone.

Sam _is_ **gone**.

“You’re not real, are you?”

 _”I’m as real as you need me to be._ ”

“Am I being played?”

_”Would it matter if you were? Will you stay because the truth of the matter came from something not wholly good?”_

Dean gives the question some thought, tilting his head and pondering the idea.

The answer is no, he probably won’t ignore the inevitable simply because something evil gave him the insight.

Being evil doesn’t preclude you from being honest, and it certainly doesn’t stop you from being right.

Maybe this is one of the many creatures who want him dead and buried, or burned alive and screaming, but who fucking cares?

Reaching backwards, searching out the knife he knows is resting on top of the covers, Dean wraps his fingers around the hilt and closes his eyes.

For the first time in a very long time, Dean prays.

He presses the tip of the blade, hard, against his jumping jugular. “Forgive me father, for I am about to sin.”

His fingers grip the hilt so tight his knuckles go white, drained of all colour. “I can’t do this any more.”

Twisting it slightly, adding more pressure, he feels the serrations in the blade bite down. “The world will be better off without me. I would be better off without the world.”

His hand shakes, the blade digs in, gains more purchase on clammy flesh. “Sammy _was_ my soul. Without him here I’m worse than dead already.”

Crimson rivulets slowly snake their way down his shuddering arm. “I’m so tired.”

Closing his eyes and wrapping his free hand around the one still gripping the hilt, Dean says one more goodbye - “Castiel, I’m sorry, I couldn’t stay.” - before using every single ounce of strength he has left to shove the knife through muscle and sinew, up into his throat.

Dean swallows once around etched silver wedged deep in his soft palate and feels fat wet bubbles of blood bursting on his tongue, before he finally feels _nothing_.

********************

Deans apology arrives loud and clear in Castiel’s head and the Angel doesn’t need to see his best friend to know exactly what’s happened.

The howling despair Dean’s been projecting without trying has completely disappeared.

In it’s place is a sense of loss so deep and so profound that Castiel almost falls to his knees.

Despite the blind panic beating behind his ribs, urging Castiel to zap into Sam’s room, he finds himself walking.

Left foot right foot left foot. Over and over again.

The Angel finds himself facing a door he doesn’t want to open but can’t seem to pull his hand back from the handle, mocking him with it’s shiny brass glinting in the light from the hallway.

“Dean?”

A complete absence of sound bounces back at Castiel, bludgeoning him with it’s silence.

No answering string of expletives. No soft snores. Not even any badly dubbed porn.

There is absolutely nothing of Dean left in the room but the river of red running under the door, gathering beneath Castiel’s feet, embedding itself in the treads of his cheap thrift store shoes.

The Angel is vaguely aware that he’ll most likely have to burn those shoes, because he will _never_ be able to scrub away that much red.

Is this grief?

Do humans feel this every time someone is snatched from their life?

If so, he fervently wishes with all his lack of soul that he could knock on the door of every bereaved person and prostrate himself at their feet for ever having had a hand in such a cruel and painful punishment.

For loving someone, this is the reward?

The loss of Sam is compounded by the removal of his brother from Castiel’s senses. The severing of all connections to the Winchesters punches the Angel so hard in the gut that he finds himself falling forwards, face first into the room, only narrowly avoiding landing open mouthed in the pool of Dean’s blood; slowly congealing and crusting beneath his feet.


	2. Chapter One

One more irritating word.

Just one _more_ word and there will be one **less** Demon for the world to have to worry about.

It’s all Castiel can do not to reach out and lay both hands on Crowley’s forehead.

Smiting him would be _so_ easy.

Smiting him would be _beyond_ satisfying.

Smiting him would bring a momentary jolt of joy, and would royally fuck up an already screwed to hell situation.

Through gritted teeth Castiel hisses at Crowley. “ _Stop_ **it.** ”

Crowley narrows his eyes and wags a finger in Castiel’s face. “What? What exactly am I supposed to stop, Feathers?”

Castiel takes a step away from the Demon before he decides to ignore every well thought out reason for not blowing him to pieces.

Crowley doesn’t heed the look twisting Castiel’s features; too into his rant, too happy to have something to hold over the celestial bird brain. “Am I meant to stop myself calling you out on the truly spectacular job you’ve done of keeping **both** Winchesters alive, or perhaps the fact that you sat back and let Dean kill himself?”

Castiel closes his eyes and tries not to let the truth of the accusation pierce his hard fought for control.

Stepping in close enough that he can smell the sweat clinging to Castiel’s clothes, Crowley grits his teeth and hisses at the Angel. “Becoming a damned demon didn’t stop the giant bozo and _you_ still managed to let him throw himself under a bus. Bravo.”

Crowley’s voice cracks, ever so slightly, on the last word of his tirade, but Castiel is in no mood for sympathy. Not when his whole world has been brought down around his ears.

Castiel vaguely remembers a conversation in which Sam once told him that no one ever has any use for sympathy, not when it sits between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.

The memory makes him ache from somewhere deep inside.

Who Castiel is, how he holds himself to account, is directly tied to those he chooses to stand beside.

Both of those people are now gone and he doesn’t know how to cope with the loss _and_ try to untangle the slew of jumbled information still streaming from his subconscious.

Grief and bone deep weariness war with an overwhelming urge to hit something until his knuckles bleed, so Castiel does the only logical thing; he punches Crowley, square in the mouth.

Uneven teeth embed themselves in the Angel’s knuckles, but the sound of Crowley’s big behind hitting the floor more than makes up for the slimy spittle and blood now coating the back of his hand.

Towering over the Demon, Castiel spits words in his face, allowing his ire to rise just enough that his eyes glow blue, sparking a warning he really hopes Crowley will pay attention to. “Shut **up**. I did not let Dean kill himself. I thought he needed time. I _thought_ he needed space. I was **wrong**. I have to live with that. I do not have to live with you accusing me of allowing Dean to commit a mortal sin. This is the first time I have ever been grateful for the threat of the Empty. At least he is not burning and you cannot get your dirty grasping hands on him.”

Castiel’s never been known for his overt shows of manliness, what with him being a non-sexualised entity residing in the body of an uptight Christian, but for a half flaccid Angel that wasn’t a bad hit.

Dragging himself off the floor with as much regalness as he can muster whilst dusting down his trousers, Crowley inches towards Castiel, who’s nostrils are flaring as he gulps back air he doesn’t technically need. “You half wit. I didn’t seriously think you’d actually let Dean off himself. Look, fighting isn’t going to solve a bloody thing and by all accounts we’ve got much bigger problems.”

Castiel breathes deeply and unfurls his fists. “Indeed.” Stepping away from Crowley, he lowers himself into one of the Bunker’s chairs and closes his eyes “Every single Angel is brought into being with the knowledge of the grand scheme etched into the walls of their brains’. We are only allowed access to those parts of the _plan_ which we may be able to necessitate, and only at the exact right times.”

Crowley’s not above insulting a man when he’s down, kicking a dying dog was always the most fun when he was a kid, but the set of Castiel’s shoulders tells him the Angel is only just holding onto his senses. Giving him another verbal bashing won’t solve anything and it certainly won’t bring back Sam or Dean.

Not that Crowley **wants** them back.

_Really._

Sodding Winchesters.

Crowley perches on the edge of the war room table, ignoring the fast spinning ball of panic that’s gaining speed and momentum in the pit of his stomach. “And Dean is pertinent to this grand plan for the universe? There’s a surprise. Trust Squirrel to be the damned saviour of the known bloody universe.”

Castiel almost smiles at that, instead he shakes his head no and sighs. “They both are.”

“What?”

“They are both important. I cannot tell you _why_ I do not know. I am not allowed to know. I just see a river of death if we do not find a way to fix this.”

“Fucking fabulous.”

***********************

“No.”

Crowley’s going to start having a full blown tantrum in a minute.

A being who can crush you with their little finger is not someone you want getting an attack of the stroppies or to start throwing their toys out the pram, but the back and forth between Angel and Demon seems never ending.

Crowley suggests something, Castiel dismisses it out of hand.

Whether that’s because Castiel doesn’t have the bollocks to commit to one plan or not, Crowley doesn’t know, but he’s going to start destroying things if the Angel doesn’t stop shooting his ideas down without thinking them through

Crowley leans in close, allowing the scent of oak aged whisky to waft across Castiel as he hisses at the Angel. “What do you mean, _no_? Asstiel, I am inches away from ripping out your grace with my bare teeth. You say we need both Sam and Dean, but they’re **dead**. Do tell me, oh wise one, how exactly we’re going to rectify this egregious oversight, hmmm?”

It isn’t that Castiel doesn’t want to find a way, it’s just that every single way Crowley has suggested ends in a major screw up in time and space, or with both Angel and Demon spending an eternity trying to piece themselves back together, or both. Reality could be ripped apart if they don’t do this _right_ \- and there’s no guarantee it will work even if they do find a path to start walking.

All of this combined with the still fresh wounds that Sam and Dean’s passing have left are serving to manifest in the mother of all headaches, which is currently beating out a tattoo at the Angel’s temples. Through teeth clamped together so hard he thinks he may chip a bicuspid, Castiel slowly and calmly goes back through the so-far bad ideas the Demon has had. “One - we do not know any Reapers who would be willing to brave the Empty, not with Billie guarding the boys ever afters. Two - There is no way in all of creation that I am going to invoke the spirit of Raphael and ask for his help. Three - That particular orifice is not designed to contain that much boot or foot, so fuck off.”

Crowley can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “Castiel, when did you start swearing, and why wasn’t I informed? You’re almost adorable. Okay fine. Our one and only other option is trying to find Death.”

Crowley is clearly expecting Castiel’s reaction because the smirk on the Demon’s face is infuriating beyond the measure of the word.

Castiel narrows his eyes and scowls at Crowley. “Death is _dead_. Dean destroyed him, with his own scythe. How precisely do you expect us to _find_ him?”

Crowley sighs and shakes his head before turning his back on Castiel, to stop himself reaching out and shaking the Angel until his teeth rattle. “You can’t kill Death. He’s an entity brought about by the need for his presence. He is the literal anthropomorphic embodiment of his job description. People are dying. Death is alive. He may be scattered into his many singular parts, but he is very much alive, somewhere. Don’t give me that look, Cas, death is my business, I know what I’m talking about.”

“But, the Reapers, they are the ones - “

“No, they are governed by the big cheese, they report to him, even if he isn’t a solid mass you can sit and chat to, his essence is _still_ active. Don‘t fucking argue, just nod and look at me like I’m a genius.”

Castiel very nearly does give Crowley an adoring look, then remembers exactly who he’s talking to. “Not if you paid me. Okay, how, _how_ do we locate Death’s essence and recorporialise him, and then ask him to save the two men responsible for his obliteration from this plane?”

Crowley shrugs and sits down. “I may well be a genius, Asstiel, but I do _not_ have **all** the answers.”

“It will not be easy.”

“Nothing ever is. How many times am I going to have to open a vein for those two, and **you**?”

Castiel’s tempted to point out that as the ex-ruler of Hell, Crowley deserves no quarter from anyone fighting for light, and yet Sam and Dean have time and again allowed him to walk away from a situation he should have been floating away from as a mist cloud, but he’s too tired.

“Tit for tat, Crowley. You scratch our backs… “

“And you’ll stick a knife in mine?”

*********************

The long line of intricately carved silver and gold bottles filled to the brim with Holy water and resting delicately on the shelf above Crowley’s head are beginning to make the Demon’s left eye twitch.

The woman being faced with two of the oddest house guests she’s ever had visit on her, rolls her eyes and points at Crowley. “Boy, if I wanted to bathe your sorry behind in pain, there wouldn’t be a damned thing you could do about it.”

“Ma’am, I am completely sure you’re absolutely right, and that’s what worries me.”

“Don’t be ma’am’in’ me, your _Majesty_.”

Crowley’s pupils retract to pinpricks as he studies the woman in front of him. “You know who I am?”

“T’ain’t a person with even a lick o’ power this side o’ the Mississippi don’t know that sorry story, Fergus.”

The spluttering and mumbling coming from Crowley is music to Castiel’s ears but he hasn’t got time to watch the Demon get his backside handed to him by a woman who looks like she should be in a knitting bee, not kicking ass and controlling spirits.

“I am in a knittin’ bee, don’t mean I can’t kick your pretty little backside either, Castiel.”

“Pretty?”

“Not bad for somethin’ that’s been recorporealised a few times.”

Castiel controls the urge to step back and shield his rear end from her. “May I sit, Missouri?”

This must be what Sam and Dean feel like, felt like, when Castiel snuck into their thoughts and dreams. Turns out, not so pleasant on the other side of the intrusion.

Castiel doesn’t know if Crowley can feel the tendrils of her mind wrapping around his memories and thoughts, but the Angel certainly can, and it itches. It’s making him want to sneeze, in his head. Very strange.

Missouri observes both the creatures fidgeting and hovering in her living room and sighs. “Be my guest. Just don’t muss up Mama’s cushions.”

Castiel removes his trench coat and folds it carefully before sitting and resting it against his knee.

Crowley tries not to smirk, knowing both Castiel and Missouri will probably beat him black and blue. “So, you know us. Do you know why we’ve come?”

“Sure as eggs is eggs I do, and believe me boy, I got no clue how y’all managed to mess this up so badly.”

Neither the Angel nor the Demon sitting side by side on the most hideous floral couch they’ve ever seen, have the energy to deny the accusation in her statement. “Believe me, Ma’ - Miss Missouri, I have no clue. Ask Feathers here.”

“Feathers, which by the way is a damn rude way o’ speakin’ ‘bout a creature s’been walkin’ and talkin’ longer than you been preyin’ on the weak, isn’t the only one at fault. You been workin’ this beat a long time Crowley. You know what’s at stake. You coulda seen to it they never stepped into that field.”

Castiel hisses and spins to face Crowley. “What is she talking about?”

“Shit. Fine. Look, Sammy - “

“It is _Sam_ to you!”

“Sam asked for my help, told me there was some big evil monster nest brewing, and I told him I was too busy trying to reclaim Hell. I’m **evil** , I don’t _help_.”

Missouri looks straight through Crowley’s hard fought for shell and sees the truth of the man. Shaking her head and lowering herself into the chair opposite, she smiles softly. “You were evil. Now, you don’t rightly know what you are. All that humanity rubbed off.”

Castiel’s not sure how to take this piece of information or whether he should split Crowley in two for allowing both the Winchesters to be lost. Anger lays itself across sorrow, giving the Angel a brief respite from the guilt still clogging his lungs and slowing his mind. “It is done now. We just need to _fix_ it.”

“And you think I’m your woman? You realise how hard this is gonna be, right? Death isn’t someone you simply pluck out of thin air. There are rituals and rites. There’s a sacrifice to be made. Not even touchin’ on the fact that he probably wants both your heads on a silver platter; as for my boys… “

Castiel pitches forward, allowing the desperation in him to shine through, knowing that Missouri will need reassurance that this isn’t just a whim, or an easing of guilt. This is vital. “Please.”

“Okay then. Hold onto your hats, boys, this is gonna be a bumpy ride.”

***********************

The candles are lit.

The ingredients are blended.

The Angel is praying.

The Demon is too.

Missouri is too busy trying to channel her powers to pay attention to the other occupants of the crypt but she’s not unaware that this is one of the stupider plans she’s taken part in. This could rip her to pieces, but saving Sam and Dean has always been worth it.

How many other people have thought that just before they fell for the final time?

Still, it’s nothing they wouldn’t have done for her, if she’d given them chance.

She walked away from them once, she won’t do it again.

The plan may be stupid, but it’s simple enough; On consecrated ground they invoke the spirit of Death. In a place with so many fallen this should pull his essence together. Recreate the man that goes with the act.

There’s absolutely no guarantee that he won’t try and reap every last one of them once he’s whole again. The man’s got a temper. Well hidden it might be under a finely crafted layer of indifference, but Missouri’s seen first hand how his wrath rivals even that of the Almighty.

“Ready boys?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Suck it up, your Majesty, we got some chantin’ to do.”

Crowley shifts on the spot, readjusting his coat and fiddling with the rosemary in his hands. “Are we sure this isn’t going to bollocks up the natural order, again?”

Castiel sighs and rolls his eyes. “Because you have ever paid heed to the natural order; King of Hell!”

“Point taken, but death is meant to be final, Sam and Dean have yo-yoed back and forth so many times they might as well have ‘not quite human’ tattooed on their backsides and a fully paid up membership to Heaven, Hell, Purgatory and any new places Chuck manages to dream up.”

Missouri’s desperately trying not to admonish them like children, as she needs to get this party started. “Look, the natural order got bent out of shape the first time John sold his soul for Dean. Anything after that was nothing more than run off. _This_ will hopefully **restore** their lineage and the order of things. Before we get to bringin’ them back we gotta invite a bigger name to the table, so I advise you shut up and let me work.”

Before either Crowley or Castiel can apologise Missouri starts chanting in some commingled version of Enochian, Somali and Hoodoo, calling forth the spirits of the dead surrounding them and asking their help in reminding Death what he used to be.

The Angel understands the words, not the meaning. The Demon hasn’t got a clue because of the mixture of languages but parrots the lines he’s been forced to memorise.

Their voices gain strength and volume and so too does the wind buffeting them, ripping straight through the middle of them. Lazy, Bobby would have called it; can’t be bothered to go round you.

Crowley’s coat flies open as he tries not to drop the lit and smoking rosemary in his hands and Castiel finds himself pinioned in place with the weight of the words he keeps repeating over and over again whilst swinging a censer from side to side.

Their leader in the spell is being overtaken by the power she’s unleashing. The spirits of the dead beneath their feet rise up as one, surrounding Missouri with their opaque visages. Grasping hands reach out to her as she opens her arms and as fast as they rose, they dissipate, leaving a fine mist in the air, rippling with left over energy.

The mist settles on them all, leaving a patina of moisture coating their skin and clothes, and from the centre of the room comes a rumbling, creaking, growling sound. The grave markers begin to split, stone is rent asunder by some unseen force.

The ever-glowing and flickering candles, which some how managed to stay lit during the tumultuous weather inside the crypt, blink out, all at once.

As the light dies there’s a sudden shift in the air. Like someone or something which even gravity will lie down for, has appeared.

Crowley and Castiel are completely blind. The removal of light has rendered them unable to focus. It’s only the sound of a cane _clickclackclickclackclicking_ across the broken grave stones which alerts them to the fact the spell has been a success.

The fear in the room is oppressive and grows exponentially with every passing second.

None of the people standing around trying to focus are immune to the sheer force of the being now in their presence and they all know he could very well be hungry for a kill after so long without a body to call his own.

Death is vengeful and ill tempered. That is undeniable.

“Good evening, gents. Lady.”

Missouri steps forward without thinking, offering him her hand. “Evenin’.”

Castiel is inches away from snatching her out of Death’s reach but Crowley motions for him to still. “Wait.”

Death observes the hand being thrust at him with confusion, as if he’s forgotten what you’re meant to do with it.

Finally he switches his cane to his other hand and wraps spindly white fingers around short ebony coloured ones. “I take it I owe my corporeal state to you?”

She grips his thumb and shakes, hard. “That you do.”

“Then I owe you a debt. One which I assume I am about to be asked to pay, judging by the looks of terror on your companions’ faces.”

She nods and smiles, pleased that he’s able to grasp the situation so fully. “That you are.”

For her part, Missouri isn’t completely unaware of how close she’s skirting to the edge of nothingness, but as Death just said, he owes her one. And she’s lived a full, if somewhat unconventional, life. If this is her _time_ it won’t hurt to go out being cheeky to a being who was around when they invented the term.

Crowley's not only impressed at Missouri’s moxy but he’s extremely intrigued to see whether or not Death will simply click his fingers and atomise the lot of them when she finally explains _why_ they’ve brought him back.

Castiel is utterly torn between absolute terror and complete awe; this is the creature who could, if he so decided, reap God.

Death’s smirk is dry as dust and icy cold. “Due solely to the fact that this is the assembled company, I am going to infer that Sam and Dean Winchester are in need of saving, again. You do realise that Dean ‘killed’ me, don’t you? Why would I choose to save either of them?”

Missouri allows Death’s hand to drop and wanders passed him like he’s a simple bystander to her plan. “Because, sir - “

The use of the word sir isn’t lost on Death and so he nods and follows her progress across the crypt without raising complaint. “Yes.”

“They mean a great deal to the order of things. I know, I know, don’t be tellin’ me what a giant pain in the backside both my boys have been when it comes to the natural order, but safe to say, if we don’t fix this mistake, the world will burn, and a mite earlier than originally planned.”

Death regards Missouri with a sense of exasperation and finality. He may well wish to have nothing more to do with any Winchester but in some things even he has no control and she’s right. Reaching inside himself, tasting the universe and the spin of the cosmos, he can _feel_ the need for both men to be present. “What would you have me do?”

“They need bringin’ home.”

“Indeed.”

******************************

“This is insanity.”

“You started it.”

“I did not say we should pluck Sam from history and throw him at a grieving Dean. this **is** insanity.”

“Gentlemen, please, I’m working here.”

“Hush up you two, less’en you want me to start knocking heads?”

The plan is set, the plan is madness, but neither Castiel or Crowley can come up with a better idea and even Death is bound by certain _laws_. Missouri’s more worried about her part in the proceedings than most because in theory she’ll have to lend her strength to Death’s, no mean feat when he’s older than God and she’s a middle aged psychic with a trick knee and arthritis in her left elbow.

Death isn’t above knowing when a group of people are bound together and so he must, once again, reiterate that there’s no interference allowed. “You do realise that there is no way any of us can influence the path the boys will be walking?”

Castiel knows the risks, he also knows that if they don’t try all will be lost. “I understand.”

Crowley’s less inclined to take this lying down and so pushes his luck way beyond the limits he’s already butting up against. “No, look, I get we can’t change the stuff they need to change for themselves but we can’t simply sit and wait here with no clue if it’s _working_. Is there a way we can observe, help. Maybe, nudge them in the right direction. We’re all liable for a fiery death if this doesn’t play out. Can we help?”

Castiel nearly falls over. Crowley’s never wanted to help in his entire hedonistic blood soaked life. Only himself. Hearing him ask the question makes the Angel wonder if Missouri wasn’t right in her assertion that he is more human than he’d like to admit.

There’s something to be said for being faced with a band of people, using the term loosely of course, who may be disparate and dishevelled but have a common goal and an affection for two men who by rights don’t actually deserve it. Death’s not immune to the emotions of humans, Angels, or Demons and he can feel the collective breath being held as he considers Crowley’s request. “Fine. I can relocate your essences. I can replace the you of then with the you of now. But - “

“There’s always a bloody but.”

Crowley’s petulence is wearing very thin, but Death’s aware how much of a part the Demon will have to play at some point and so denies the urge to dissipate his molecules amongst the air. “ **But** you can’t influence them too much. You can guide and explain but the final decision must be theirs, only theirs.”

“Why can’t we - “

“For the very last time, **Crowley** \- “

The tone in Death’s voice sends a physical shudder down the Demon’s spine as he tries not to shrink under the gaze being levelled on him.

“I can’t simply bring Sam and Dean back to life. Not only did the manner of Sam’s death mean his body can’t be reused, despite Dean’s refusal to give him the appropriate hunter’s funeral, but Dean took his own life. That, regardless of whether or not they’re in the empty, is a mortal sin, one which he will burn for eventually. If they choose to wipe the slate clean and start again the mark will be removed from his soul. He _can_ ascend to Heaven. Would you have me bring him back and allow him to be destined for your cells despite the work he and his brother have laying ahead of them?”

Castiel steps forward, shoving an open palm in Crowley's face. “Even if he _could_ I **will not**.”

“That’s what I thought. I can fold time, I can send a younger, alive, Sam to Dean. Unfortunately in order for this to work, for the sin to be removed, it has to be Dean just before he dies. Before he chooses to commit the sin. He must remember Sam dying and choose not to take his own life. Together they must choose to re-write their own history.”

Missouri’s not sure when this became a kindergarten class she had to corral, but she’s sure not going to let the petty pissing matches between preternatural creatures derail the reason for their gathering. “Come on. Enough back biting. We’re all clear on the whys and wherefores, aren’t we?!”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Indeed.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road.”

Death settles himself in the centre of the room and motions for the Angel, Demon and Psychic to surround him before clasping his hands together and bowing his head.

“For the sacrifices we are about to make, we ask a favour, a boon. For the life force of one who has foresight and power - ”

Missouri’s entire body goes rigid, taken over by something which is clearly sapping her energy.

“We request a fold in time. For the one who walks and talks but is not alive - “

Crowley’s arms and legs become so heavy he almost drops to the floor. Sheer force of will is the only thing keeping him upright.

“We beg a chance to change that which is not yet written in stone. For the being with grace and eternity - “

Castiel’s borrowed heart pumps, once, as he struggles to draw breath.

“We hope for a revival of souls. As we offer these gifts, we beg you take the bounty and with it the opportunity to taste mortality wrapped in forever.”

Death himself begins to shake and shudder on the spot. His entire body becomes a blur and he almost blinks out of existence.

A howl sounds in the room, one which gives way to a feeling of sorrow so deep it touches each and every person present.

The sound dies away and Missouri finally manages to open her eyes and is not shocked to find only Death, crouched in the middle of the room, holding a hand to his chest and heaving for breath.

Stumbling forward, she lays a hand on his shoulder and notices the strip of grey hair hanging down across her eyes. “Damn, who knew doin’ good would turn me into an old woman?”

Death smiles up at her, grateful for her presence. “Madam, old or young, you are a wonder.”

“Damn straight!”


	3. Chapter Two

Crowley comes to perched precariously upon a throne that’s no longer his.

It’s not like coming out of a deep sleep, it’s more like his mind is slowly leaking into his limbs. His brain is fully functional but it takes a moment for everything else to catch up and connect.

There’s a disgusting cloying smell permeating the room, stifling the normal scent of dank mildew covered brickwork. Something akin to gone off ribs on a grill, and it takes Crowley a moment to remember he’s just immolated a minion who tried to kill him in service of Lucifer.

Being back inside a body that technically no longer belongs to him, even second hand, is very disconcerting. Crowley’s mind has moved on and yet he can feel the emotions of his former self lying just beneath the surface, tickling his senses.

As a mind in charge of a body already being possessed, his brain struggles to differentiate between then and now.

Peeling himself from the throne, Crowley takes a step towards the door only to hear another set of footsteps coming his way. Clicking his fingers he disappears from sight just as the door opens and some no neck demon pokes it’s head into the room.

Crowley never thought he’d be willing to admit this but, he needs to find Castiel.

**************

Castiel awakes to the deafening and devastating sounds of Dean’s turmoil.

The violence that came with those first days of Sam’s death was hard enough to witness then. Hearing it again is like an Angel blade to the chest. It makes him ache to comfort a man who’s beyond help.

As strong as the urge is to go to Dean, he must stick to the plan.

Castiel needs to find Crowley before a newly alive Sam arrives and scares the holy hell out of his brother.

Willing his sluggish mind to fully inhabit his body, Castiel feels out the muscles needed to rise from the couch.

Hauling himself up, the Angel wills his limbs to cooperate.  
.  
Finally able to flex his fingers and wiggle his toes in his shoes, Castiel manages to touch finger and thumb together before clicking himself out of the Bunker. “I am so sorry, Dean.”

**************

Sam opens his eyes and is instantly blinded by the brightest most beautiful sun he’s ever seen. “Crap!”

The air is warm and wet, leaving an odd taste in the back of his throat as he peels his tongue from the roof of his dry mouth. Sitting up and surveying his surroundings Sam’s not entirely sure where he’s _meant_ to be, but somehow he knows it isn’t **here**.

Waking up in an abandoned field, dust clinging to his clothes and skin, with no one else in shouting distance, does absolutely nothing for his sense of calm. He has no memory of how he came to be here and that alone is weird, the fact that Dean is nowhere in sight amps up the tension in his muscles.

As usual his instant reaction when faced with not knowing something is to make it to his brother as quickly as possible.

Stumbling to his feet he pats himself down, searching for his phone.

Nothing.

Fine.

On foot then.

Dean will know what the hell is going on.

*********************

“Are you - “

“Are you?”

“Would I be here if I weren’t, dumb arse!”

“Fine.”

“We need to find Moose before he finds Squirrel.”

“Agreed.”

“ **Wait.** ”

If it were possible, Crowley would have had a fucking heart attack. Having only just mastered the use of this body which is struggling with the second hand possession, he’s already disorientated when Death appears out of thin bloody air. “Shit, okay look, I know you’re the all seeing one and can find us wherever we are but, could you NOT do that?! If I were capable of a stress induced heart failure, I’d have just dropped on the spot.”

Castiel can see through Death. He’s pale and thin, like he’s being stretched tight across two realities, which the Angel supposes he is, to some extent.

Stepping forward, allowing his confusion to show on his face, Castiel tilts his head and regards the deity in front of him. “What, you said we could guide them!”

Death has limited time here. He can’t stay and he certainly can’t interfere but he also knows that these two well meaning idiots will step on the wrong cracks if they aren’t given some guidance of their own. “Sam doesn’t have a clue what’s happened. I plucked him out of some obscure moment in his past. He thinks it’s roughly three years ago. He’s done the first trial. He won’t understand why Dean is so broken. You must explain it to him. **Before** he finds his brother.”

The look that passes between Angel and Demon is one of trepidation. Three years ago they could not have been further from each other in terms of working the same side. Crowley was the Winchesters’ worst enemy and Castiel was, for want of a better word, lost.

“So, nothing too hard then?”

As Death’s visage fades from sight, he uses his cane to tip a salute at both the beings now completely unsure of their path. “I told you, one time deal. No do-overs. Get this right or we all lose - everything. There’s a voice message still on Dean’s answering service. It’s important, just remember that.”

*************

Dean’s been destroying absolutely everything that stands still long enough for him to wrap his hands around it. Every bit of furniture, all the beautiful antiques lining the walls and shelves, and the books that Sammy so loved to sit and paw through; all ripped to tiny unrecognisable pieces.

Sam would hand him his ass if he ever saw the vast pile of detritus rapidly building around Dean’s legs, but the anger in him, the rage, won’t be swayed or stilled.

He can’t bring Sam back and this seems the only logical outlet for Dean’s vitriol at the Universe, and his brother. “Bastard, why? WHY did you leave me? You promised you’d stay!”

Not for the first time, Dean thinks there may be a way off this crazy train ride of hurt, a chance to step out of the horrific reality he’s stuck in. Is he strong enough, though? Can he take that final step?

If Dean’s not allowed to bring Sammy home he knows he won’t survive alone. He’ll become so reckless some evil beasty will get him, with that in mind perhaps it’s okay to step off the ledge unaided.

_Live the life we promised each other._

“Fuck YOU!”

Dean continues to rend pages from spines as his vision blurs. “You promised you’d stay, how am I meant to live **that** life without you?!”

**************************

Castiel’s entire being aches to reach out to his friend, who’s still swinging wildly between violence and apathy.

The silence peppering Dean’s outbursts would be a welcome respite to anyone who didn’t know the man, but to Castiel they show his rapid descent into madness and desperation. A journey the Angel should have seen coming the first time around. All the while the Hunter is destroying things he’s _feeling_ something, there’s still fight in his soul.

The second Dean stops railing against the injustice of his brother’s passing, Castiel knows all hope is lost.

Hovering in the between, the place where the Angel can see and hear but not touch and taste, Castiel wills Crowley to hurry the hell up. He has to have found something by now. They’ve been _here_ for two days. Two days in which he’s had to, once again, unsuccessfully try and calm the rage in Dean’s heart.

Perhaps that was his mistake; encouraging Dean to try and accept Sam’s death.

In accepting Sam’s death the Hunter allowed something else into his mind, a spark of an idea that blossomed into a horrifying moment of clarity. One which Castiel would do anything to stop from happening again.

As Dean walks away from the pile of splinters that used to be an antique table, Castiel hangs his head and prays.

Knowing that Chuck won’t be listening doesn’t stop the Angel hoping for an answer.

**********************

Sam’s been hitching rides for two solid days. Slowly working his way _home_. Not that the Bunker really feels like any kind of a home, yet. Just a dusty old library where they store every word ever written.

He’s tried phoning all of Dean’s numbers from various payphones along the route, but none of them are in service, which alone would freak him out but add that to the fact he can hear a strange kind of hum in the back of his mind, Sam’s starting to feel like a rat in a maze; he keeps running and searching and turning corners yet he gets nowhere, fast.

He knows he’s being tailed.

Years of Hunting have left him with a clear sense of his surroundings and despite how confused Sam is right now he can _feel_ eyes on his back every time he turns around.

He doesn’t know who it is, and right now he doesn’t care because all he really needs is to get back to Dean, who must be having a complete mental meltdown.

His brother’s never been very good at coping with not knowing where Sam is, at every damned minute of the day.

Forty-eight hours out of reach will be having a not so fun effect on Dean’s temper. Especially as they’re still slap bang in the middle of the trials. Trials which his brother was adamant Sam wouldn’t be undertaking.

As Sam sits quietly in the back of a pickup truck trundling far too slowly towards Lebanon, he wonders what kind of chaos he’ll walk back into.

**************

Crowley blinks into existence just outside the Bunker’s front door. Knowing he can’t actually enter the building without a little help from one of the occupants, he calls out to Castiel, who’s still playing invisible nursemaid to a man who’s inches away from ending it all.

“Asstiel, get your feathery backside out here.”

Castiel blinks into existence right behind Crowley, making him physically jump then cough to cover over his discomfort. “You called? Have you found him yet?”

“He’s about an hour away riding in the back of a rickety old pickup truck. I considered reaching out to him on the road but figured me getting exorcised wouldn’t help our cause. Stop smiling, Cas.”

Castiel tries unsuccessfully to damp down the smirk at the image of Crowley being sent back to a Hell where he already got ousted from the throne once, and trying to explain himself to the collective army assembled to dethrone him. “Sorry. Look, we can’t let him actually get here. There is not a single thing we could do that would stop Sam from going to Dean once he’s within touching distance. We have to intercept him now.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and sighs. “Fine, but you’re doing all the talking. I like my tongue where it is, thank you very much.”

“If we work together we can lift him from the truck. Do you think you can control your urge to smack me silly long enough to get this done?”

“I can try.”

“Funny.”

***************

Sam’s brain is itching. Tiny tendrils of irritation are snaking their way around his slowly firing neurons.

The weird hum he can hear is gaining volume and intensity and it’s starting to hurt his ears, from the inside.

Attributing it to the trial he’s just finished, he attempts to ignore it by picking at a flaking piece of paint on the tailgate of the truck he’s been riding in for what seems like years.

Just as Sam finally manages to get a dirty fingernail under the loose paint chip, he’s no longer sitting in the truck, but standing on the side of a dusty tree lined road being flanked by Castiel and Crowley. “What the **fuck**?”

Crowley takes a step away from the man who never needs an excuse to kick his arse, and motions to Castiel, who’s fidgeting on the other side of Sam. “You’re up, Wings.”

Castiel clears his throat and lays a hand on Sam’s arm. “We need to talk.”

Sam shakes his arm from beneath Castiel’s fingers and narrows his eyes at the Angel, who’s beginning to look like a kid who got caught with his arm in the cookie jar. “Damn straight we do. I’ve been trying to make it home for two fucking days and you choose **now** to blink into existence. I called you. I prayed. And what the hell is King Douchebag doing here?!”

“Play nice, Moose, we’re here to he - “

Sam spins to face Crowley who does his level best not to shrink under the Hunter's heated glare. “Push me, Crowley, I dare you. If you’re about to say help, I swear I’ll pound you until my knuckles bleed.”

“Well, this is going swimmingly. Look, stop being a rage filled rabid puppy for two minutes and **listen**.”

Castiel tries once more to reach out to Sam, whose shoulders are coiled, ready to spring at the King of Hell any moment. “Please, Sam. We need you to listen. It’s about Dean.”

The mention of his brother doesn’t calm Sam, but it stills his natural instinct to rip Crowley to pieces. “Talk.”

*************

“I’m WHAT?!”

“Dead.”

“As in…”

“As in brown bread, dust in the wind, candle on the water, you are forever a treasured memory, dear Moose.”

“ _Crowley_.”

Crowley turns on Castiel who’s desperately trying to control the rapidly spiralling situation. “No, Gigantor needs to listen. If he doesn’t _get it_ then we’re all buggered. He’ll be meat and Dean will be gone and this will all have been for nothing.”

Sam’s slumped against a tree, fingers kneading his temples. Dead. He’s dead. But… “How can I be dead, I’m right here?”

Castiel crouches down in front of Sam and taps him on the shoulder. “Look at me.”

Sam opens his eyes and is met with pure unadulterated pain and regret flashing back at him from the Angel’s solemn face. “So, how?”

“I cannot, I do not know how… I am sorry, Sam.”

Wrapping his fingers around Sam’s face, clasping the Hunter’s reddened cheeks, Castiel concentrates on the memory of what was left of Sam’s earthly form.

Sam’s already abused mind is assaulted by the scent of sun dried blood, crisping in the heat of a stupidly hot afternoon. There’s a desecrated and destroyed body lying at Castiel’s feet. It’s only the shreds of orange plaid loosely wrapped around what’s left of an upper torso, that make it recognisable as himself.

With his cheek pressed flush to the one piece of intact flesh, Dean’s shoulders heave with untempered tears of anger, sorrow and grief. He’s clearly been there for a long time, and is resolutely refusing to relinquish his grip on his deceased sibling.

Sam attempts to drag his mind from Castiel’s grasp but is thrown forwards in time. His head spins as his stomach joins in the wurlitzer ride of horror he’s feeling. Finally he can see one solid picture. One image that makes no sense and yet fills him with a sudden urge to gouge his own eyes out.

Dean’s beautiful face is crumpled and drained of all colour. His chin is resting heavy against his unmoving chest and there’s the tip of a very recognisable blade protruding from his neck, just below his hairline. Blood congeals on the floor and there are footprints in it, boot marks from what Sam can only assume are Castiel’s feet.

The violent turning over of Sam’s insides is accompanied by the faces of Death and Missouri superimposed across Dean’s unmoving body, and Sam’s stomach lurches sideways.

The heaving breaths Sam’s taking force Castiel to relinquish his grip and the Hunter scrabbles for distance from memories that aren’t his but will be with him for the rest of his days.

Stumbling to his feet, Sam barely makes it passed Crowley’s Armani dress shoes before he’s hunching over and throwing up everything he’s ever eaten, and then some.

Castiel wipes away the wetness resting against his cheeks and stands, stepping up next to Crowley, who’s eyeing him with a mixture of awe and disgust.

“Fuck, Feathers. I thought _I_ was cruel and nasty, but if you just showed him what I think you showed him, then you’re officially the most evil thing I have ever met. Kudos.”

The sound of Sam retching and sobbing fills Castiel’s ears and he wishes with all his unbeating heart that there had been another way. “I did not know how else to - he had to understand - you were right.”

“As much as I want you to write that down and sign it, I’m not entirely sure we’re going to get any sense out of Moose by showing him memory sponsored film reels of their deaths.”

“He had to see what I saw. Feel what I felt.”

Sam’s stomach is finally blessedly free of anything it could possibly expel and he falls backwards, landing heavily on his ass, before scrubbing violently at his mouth with the back of his hand. “How _could_ he?!”

Crowley flicks his eyes to the Hunter who’s face is ashen and still covered in chunks of god knows what. “You’re up.” Stepping back, Crowley turns away from Sam and Castiel, giving them the moment they need.

Castiel folds himself into a sitting position in front of Sam. Paying no attention to the dirt and grit adhering itself to his coat. “Sam, Dean was broken.”

Sam’s eyes close and he belches, as if he’s about to start vomiting again, because behind his lowered lids is the image of Ruby’s knife, encrusted with his brother’s blood, poking out of pale pulseless flesh. “But he **killed** himself. Dean would never - “

“The Dean you know would never have taken his own life, but in the last three years you’ve both been to Hell and back, literally. He was tired. You were gone. He could not see a way out. And I let it happen.”

“You… “

“I did not hand him the blade, I mean I did not see what he was about to do. In hindsight though, I cannot blame him. Mortal sin it may be but when a heart is that broken how do you stitch the pieces back together?”

Sam’s crumbling facade of calm is given a violent shove into completely shattered as he realises Castiel’s right.

The tears that slowed earlier start again. Silently they streak his cheeks, leaving glistening lines of salt in their wake. “Why am I here?”

Castiel doesn’t know if he has the strength to explain but Sam _must_ help them, must try to save himself and his brother. “There’s something coming, something big and bad and more terrifying than you have ever faced. We need you both, whole and alive.”

“The natural order… ”

“Is already torn to shreds, Sam. Right now your spirits are residing in the Empty. We need to stop Dean killing himself so that you can both turn back time.”

“What the hell is the Empty? I thought, I thought we had a place in He - “

Crowley, still standing a distance away, winces, knowing that this is going to throw another spanner in the works.

Castiel sighs before leaning forwards and placing a gentle hand on Sam’s bent knee. “It is hard to explain. Let us just say that Dean and yourself have done some things in the past three years that have irritated some high ranking supernatural beings. Look, Sam, we need you to focus. I know it is hard. I wish there had been another way to get you up to speed, but now we _must_ make it to Dean before he does something that cannot be undone. We have one chance. Death has gifted us this one opportunity to set things right.”

“How am I ‘sposed to face Dean knowing he thinks he buried the pieces of what was left of me?”

Crowley wanders towards the still seated duo. “That, Moose, is entirely up to you. We aren’t allowed to interfere with anything after the fact.”

“WHAT?!”

Castiel feels so very sorry for Sam as he makes to stand. “We can guide you to Dean, Sam, and give you the knowledge of why, but we cannot influence the path you both take afterwards. We can only be called upon when you have need of certain pieces of information.”

“What kind of fucked up plan to save us and the universe is THAT?!”


	4. Chapter Three

 

Sam comes barreling into his own room, crashing through the door and almost taking it off it’s hinges, just as Dean’s about to bury Ruby’s knife in the back of his throat. “STOP!”

Dean’s so far into his own personal hell he doesn’t for one second believe that this thing is really Sam, thinking it’s yet another image of his brother sent to taunt or torment.

“Please. Dean.”

Barely sparing a glance towards the man now pleading with him, Dean shakes his head and rasps out a reply. “Go away, Sammy. You’re not real. I don’t wanna be real anymore. Just, let me go.”

Laying the tip of the wicked looking blade just below his Adam’s apple, Dean tightens his grip and twists the hilt, hissing as it bites into his throat.

Sam’s so intent on forcing his brother to listen he almost doesn’t spot _himself_ ; sitting nonchalantly in front of Dean, legs crossed, sickly looking smile plastered across opaque and shimmering features. Sam’s taken aback just long enough to allow Dean to draw blood which automatically kicks his body into action, despite his mind’s confusion.

Sam leaps forward, snatching at the knife, now embedded in Dean’s skin, dragging it sideways away from his throat.

As he grapples with Dean, Sam sees the thing wearing his face wink and tip it’s head before blinking out of existence.

The very act of trying to stop Dean cutting himself causes an angry looking line of fresh blood to bloom from the dip in Dean’s throat all the way to the edge of his collar bone. The sight of it makes Sam feel physically sick but at least Dean hasn’t sliced his jugular. If only he could wrench the knife away, but his brother is so strong, despite the weakness of his will to survive.

The wound isn’t deep enough to be mortal and Sam renews his efforts to pry the blade from Dean’s hands. “Dean, _please_ I’m real! Stop!”

Sam’s world recedes to a single point; the tip of the blade being shoved back and forth between them. It’s got droplets of Dean’s precious blood snaking along supernaturally sharp edges, seeping into runes etched in silver, and he finds a well of strength he didn’t know he had. “NO!”

Pulling back as hard as possible, he drags Dean to his feet before physically ripping the knife out of his hands. “No! STOP!”

Dean doesn’t know whether he’s gone full on bat shit or if this thing is actually Sam.

It can’t be Sammy.

Sammy’s buried in an unnamed plot on the outskirts of town; his body torn to shreds and unrecognisable.

If this can’t be Sammy then it has to be something else.

He’s far too solid to be the faux-Sam that’s been talking to him for days on end.

This **must** be some kind of monster.

 _Monster_.

Dean looks down at his now empty hands, tilting his head and staring quizzically at the space where the knife was, before allowing his head to rise and his eyes to narrow into dangerous looking slits.

Sam’s about to step forward, to try and lay hands on his brother to prove he’s really _real_ , when Dean attacks.

Flinging himself at Sam, hands shaped into vicious looking claws, Dean starts trying to rip chunks out of him.

Raining down blow after blow until Sam’s forced to curl into a ball and beg for Dean to listen. “ _Please_ , Dean. It’s me. It’s ME! Our mother is Mary Winchester. Our Father is John Winchester. You love Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but you can’t stand either on their own. You have a thing for being tickled, and your favourite movie isn’t actually Die Hard or True Grit, like you tell everyone else. It’s actually Miss Congeniality and you’ve made me watch it about fifteen times in the last five years. **Please**.”

It’s only when Castiel blinks himself and Crowley into the room that Dean finally stops trying to take Sam apart piece by piece, and it’s not because he believes a word out of this thing’s mouth, but because Crowley pulls _it_ clear of his fists whilst Castiel wraps celestially strong arms around his shoulders and hauls him backwards.

“STOP!”

Dean’s heaving for breath, his face is red and sweating, and he’s all ready to go another round, when Castiel shakes him, violently.

Sam steps out of Crowley’s grasp and lays both hands on Dean’s cheeks, forcing his brother to look him in the eye.

“Careful, Moose.”

Leaning in close, avoiding Dean’s gnashing teeth, Sam lets his lips lay gently against his brother’s ear and lowers his voice to a whisper. “The first time we ever made love, I was fifteen, and you threatened to leave right afterwards. Saying you were disgusting and we were going to burn in Hell. I begged you to stay, and you did. But you refused to touch me again until the night before I left for college.”

Castiel can hear every word Sam’s uttering, but he has the wherewithal to lean away, giving the brothers some semblance of privacy while still restraining Dean, who’s slowly going limp in his arms.

Crowley can clearly hear everything too, but Castiel shoots him a look that says, ‘I will kill you stone dead if you say a single thing’.

Dean listens to Sam’s voice, feels the heat of his breath ghosting against his cheek and smells the unique scent that is wholly his brother, and his entire body goes into shock.

Dean drops like a lead weight in Castiel’s arms.

Sam snakes his hands around Dean’s shoulders and guides him to the floor before curling into a lotus position in front of him. Something he knows will help Dean recognise that the man sitting before him is in fact his brother and not some evil shape shifting monster.

Dean’s eyes glaze over and his head spins. “ _Sammy?_ ”

Sam nods and holds out his hand, palm up, fingers waggling.

Dean reaches out, hesitantly, hands hovering in mid-air, fingers itching to touch, but still unsure how much of this is his madness manifested.

Sam pushes his arm forward so that Dean’s fingertips are touching his palm. “It’s me.”

As Dean’s eyes stop darting from side to side and focus on Sam’s hand, his fingers gently walk across the creases and gouges in familiar flesh.

Castiel clicks his fingers and he and Crowley find themselves sitting in the library, surrounded by days and days worth of destroyed artifacts and reading materials.

“That was just getting good.”

“That was none of your business.”

************************

The weight of Dean’s madness and grief are clearly evident in his face as he sits across the table from Castiel and Crowley, trying to fathom the stupidly complicated explanation for Sam’s living breathing status. “So, he _is_ dead?”

Castiel watches Dean resolutely refuse to look Sam square in the face, and is struck by just how stubborn the man can be. A Winchester family trait, so far as he can tell. “Yes. This timeline’s Sam is dead. You have a chance to change that though.”

Dean looks at Castiel like he’s just offered him a glass of yak urine to drink. “So he is dead but he can be alive, and all this is because you think we need to save the damned universe from some unspeakable evil? Can you say mind fuck? How come you didn’t know _this_ before I decided to kill myself?!”

Crowley is, quite frankly, loving the Angel’s discomfort. It’s nice to see his holier than though self called on some of the bollocks he spouts, plus all the while Dean’s ire is directed at Cas, he can sneak under the radar without getting himself a black eye. “Yeah, Feathers, how come?”

Castiel slides a hand under the table, unseen by either Sam or Dean, and pinches Crowley’s upper thigh, leaving what will be a nasty looking bruise in his wake. “It is the way of my kind. We are not allowed to intervene only facilitate. Once you were removed from the mortal coil, my instincts kicked in.”

Sam chooses now to finally voice something that’s been niggling him since Crowley and Castiel abducted him out the back of that pickup truck. “Why can’t we ever be brought back to life to go on vacation? Just once it’d be nice to get saved for no other reason than we fucking deserve it.”

Despite the fact that Sam’s very presence is causing Dean’s skin to want to walk off his bones, he finds himself grinning at his little brother’s inability to temper his annoyance. “Man’s got a point, why exactly do _we_ have to save the bloody universe all the time?”

Sam isn’t oblivious to the fact that Dean won’t look at him, or speak his name. It’s like his brother doesn’t want to properly acknowledge him, for fear he’ll allow the _real_ Sam to be lost to time. The only problem with that is, he is the **real** Sam. He has every single memory that Dean has, up until a point.

He still feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end the second Dean shifts slightly closer.

He definitely feels the loss of warmth when Dean realises how close he’s sitting and shunts his chair sideways.

He also _still_ wants to rip his bloody minded brother a new one for attempting to commit suicide. Or for actually committing suicide. Sam’s not entirely sure the bollocking will be valid if Dean never managed to go through with it.

The memories Castiel gave him are still raw and fresh, weeping into the back of his mind, seeping into every second he spends with this version of Dean.

No matter how off Dean is with him, Sam and he **will** be having a conversation about it.

Turning to Dean, Sam taps him lightly on the knee under the table, and raises an eyebrow. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, goody, front row seats to the Sam’n’Dean show. Not a dry seat in the house.”

Castiel channels Dean and slaps Crowley upside the head before dragging him from the kitchen. “Crowley, you are an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one.”

************************

Dean rises from his chair and heads towards the fridge, in search of something a little stronger than the coffee now sitting cold in it’s cup in front of him. “Talk, about what?”

Sam sighs and follows Dean. “Why won’t you look at me?”

Popping the cap on his beer, Dean takes a huge swig before wiping his mouth and finally looking Sam in the eye. “Last time I saw you, you were in pieces. I couldn’t even see your face properly. I’m afraid every time I turn around I’m going to see _that_ and not **this**.” Dean tips his hand at Sam’s whole and unblemished body.

There’s a not so small part of Sam that wants to punch Dean, crack that strong jaw of his, for thinking he’s the only one who’s harbouring memories so atrocious they haunt his waking moments. Instead he steps forward, pinning Dean between himself and the kitchen counter. “Do you know what Castiel showed me, to prove he was on the up and up?”

Dean’s body automatically responds to Sam’s closeness and he tries to shift himself sideways so as not to give away the very visceral reaction he’s suffering. “What?”

“You, dead. Ruby’s knife sticking out the back of your neck. Blood everywhere. I could _smell_ it. It still makes me gag just thinking about it.”

Dean remembers what he was willing to do and can’t even consider the horror of what Castiel must have walked in on. If Sam’s been _gifted_ with those images then he owes him an apology. “Sam, I - “

“Don’t. Don’t you dare say you’re sorry, to me. If you were sorry you wouldn’t have been willing to… to… “ Despite the fact they’re both alive, for now, Sam finds himself shivering uncontrollably.

Dean acts on instinct, wrapping his arms around his brother’s shoulders as they shake. “Hey, come on, we’re both here, I just need a bit of time to - I don’t know. I lost you, and now you’re here but you haven’t lived the crap I have. It’s hard to untangle, in my head. Doesn’t mean I don’t… I don’t lov - want you here.”

Sam knows that Dean’s not ready to express any kind of feeling towards him, but his heart still hurts for the correction. Instead of focusing on what seems like a loss of something integral to their relationship, Sam leans into Dean’s embrace, taking comfort where he can.

As Sam snuggles down into Dean’s arms, which for a man that size is no mean feat, he grits his teeth and growls. “Just so you know, I ever catch you trying to do something like that again, _I’ll_ kill you.”

****************

Castiel seeks refuge from the intensity in the Bunker by sneaking outside for a breath of fresh air he doesn’t really require, where he finds Crowley idling against the railings leading down the steps. “Hey.”

“Hey, Feathers. Too much in there for you?”

Castiel’s loathe to allow Crowley a foot hold in his head, but he’s too tired to put up a fight. “Yes. Why are _you_ out here?”

Crowley decides that for once, honesty might not hurt him, and Castiel’s shown that despite their usual status of mortal enemies, he can be trusted. Turning to the Angel, with a wan smile on his face, the Demon leans his elbows on the railings and starts speaking. “Once upon a time, long ago, there was a - shall we call him a Tinker - and he lost someone. This someone meant a great deal to him. So much so he was willing to give his soul to get the man back. The only problem was, once the Tinker had given his soul, the man decided he could do better with his second chance at life. Ever since then the Tinker has poured scorn on anything resembling a relationship that brings anyone any kind of joy.”

Castiel’s not entirely sure how to take this confession, all he knows is that the set of Crowley’s shoulders and the sadness in his eyes tugs at something deep inside him. Instead of doing what he would usually do with Sam or Dean and being as direct as possible, he goes for humour, knowing the Demon will appreciate it. “I thought you sold your soul for an extra bit of leverage with the ladies.”

Crowley bursts into full blown laughter. “Wings, I just thought I’d get something out of the deal for myself. And who said it was for the ladies?”

“You have a son.”

“I have a serious issue with being able to say no to my baser instincts. Hello, Demon in the making.”

The sound of Castiel and Crowley’s laughter echoes back at them from the overbearing walls of the Bunker.

*************

Sam pours over book after book, trying to find some way to reverse time which won’t cost either himself or his brother their soul, or a good chunk of it. “It’s useless! I can’t find a damned fucking thing!”

Dean steps up behind Sam and lays a soft open palm against his neck, offering comfort the only way he knows how. “Chill, we’ll find something. We have to.”

Sam’s not unaware that the simple act of laying skin on skin will probably have cost Dean another chink in his hastily constructed armour, and so takes a moment to enjoy the touch before subtly moving away.

Sam’s spent the last two days trying not to jump Dean, whilst his brother’s done everything in his power to avoid being alone with the youngest Winchester.

It hurts, but Sam understands it.

If their situations were reversed Sam’s not entirely sure he wouldn’t have reacted the exact same way.

Dean feels the loss of warmth from his palm and shakes himself. The sudden realisation that he’s holding back from a man who knows him up and down and inside out, is fucking stupidity personified, and almost knocks him off his feet.

“Sammy.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

Sam’s confused, which as a general rule is how Dean’s always made him feel, but this version has some extra quirks his one hasn’t developed yet. So, instead of trying to decipher the meaning behind the words he simply asks. “For what?”

“For not doing this sooner.” Dean takes a deep cleansing breath before sitting squarely in Sam’s lap.

Wrapping his arms tightly around his brother’s shoulders he smashes his lips down on Sam’s and foregoes smooth for honest.

Mashing their tongues together, Dean nips at Sam’s lips and grabs his hand, heaving himself from atop long inviting legs, dragging them both upright. “Bedroom, now.”

Castiel and Crowley walk in to the sounds of someone allowing a herd of cows to run amok in the Bunker and realise what’s about to happen, so decide to blink out to the nearest bar.

Neither the Angel or the Demon fancy listening to an acapella concert of the Winchesters getting reacquainted.

******************

Sam’s body quakes on top of Dean’s Egyptian cotton sheets.

honeyed sun kissed skin glistens as Sam writhes, sliding with delicious ease against a one thousand thread count, and his incoherence is only bested by the need to feel Dean inside. “ _Please_.”

This older, more weathered version of Dean, has learned some interesting new moves and fucking hell does he know how to work that filthy tongue; driving Sam wild with want and not being remotely sorry for it.

Sam shivers as Dean runs the very tip of his tongue along the inside of his brother’s thigh and it’s all he can do not to wrap both legs around the head buried between them. “ **Please**.”

For Dean there is nothing sweeter or more satisfying than the sound of Sam coming apart beneath him, well constructed piece by well constructed piece. His brother spends his entire life holding his tongue and his temper and even his feelings in check, when he lets go, he really lets go.

If you allow a dam to break, everything else gets washed away in the wake of the flood.

Some of Dean’s most treasured memories are those that show Sam in a light so few have seen. Whether it be laughter or tears, or mind blowing sex that if left untempered could go on for days, Sam is never more _Sam_ than when he allows himself the freedom to feel.

Dean doesn’t know if it’s the reminder of what Sam’s capable of when he’s unfettered by rules or right and wrong, of the days when Demon blood circled his heart, or a lack of soul made him a machine with so few goals, but there’s a simpleness in allowing Dean to take him and break him and put him back together again.

Sex is never just sex with Sam, and as much as Dean’s spent a lifetime avoiding anything that remotely resembles _real_ when it comes to relationships, the way in which his brother loves, on every level, is somewhat addictive.

Nosing Sam’s long, thick, gorgeous cock out of the way, ignoring the whimpering coming from above, Dean slides his tongue between his brother’s smooth shaved balls, leaving a gleaming wet trail. Allowing it to cool, he then blows gently, and watches as the skin puckers, before engulfing one between his lips.

As Dean’s teeth graze oh so sensitive flesh, Sam twitches and pulls his knees to his chest, watching the crown of his brother’s head bob between his legs, and he finds himself snorting.

Dean’s face comes back into view and his eyes narrow. “Hey, I’m workin’ here. What’s so funny?”

“Dickhead.”

“Dork!”

The laughter dies on Sam’s lips as Dean shifts up the bed, shimmying slowly across the body now completely drenched with sweat, and wriggling enticingly below him. “So, you think you’re funny, huh?”

There’s a glint in Dean’s eye that invites a retort but Sam knows better than to push when his brother holds all the cards. Instead he bites down on his bottom lip and nods, once.

Some things will never change, no matter how many years and kills separate them.

Letting his legs fall open, Sam holds his breath as Dean fits himself snugly between them.

“Ready or not, here I come.”

Sam’s eyes roll back as soon as the tip of Dean’s cock comes into contact with his tight, unprepared hole, and he thinks no matter how many times they do this, it always feels like an exploration of unwalked road.

_Long may they chart a course._

********************

The respite from worry lasts mere moments; Sam and Dean take a few hours out to rediscover what they look like in each other’s eyes, and then it’s noses back to the grindstone.

Of all people it’s Castiel who reminds them that despite the need to reconnect, they still have a world to save and a dead Winchester to resurrect.

“Sam, Dean, please. If we are to save Sam you have to focus.”

“You realise how ass about face that sounds, don’t you Cas?”

For the first time in weeks Dean doesn’t feel like there’s a knife buried between his shoulderblades, the thought of his brother doesn’t crush him, and he’s not sure he has the strength to give this sense of _home_ up.

Sitting across from Sam, this Sam, with his holey socked feet resting easily upon one of his brother’s stupidly long legs, Dean has the sudden urge to grab him by the collar and make for the Impala. “Can’t we - “

Castiel knew this was coming, and he knew Dean would eventually cleave to the idea that this Sam is the right Sam.

But he isn’t. “No, you cannot. It does not work that way.”

“But - “

“No. This Sam belongs in another timeline. If you think the natural order is bent out of shape now, try keeping him here and see how fast the threads of time unravel.”

 _This_ Sam sits and listens whilst studiously turning page after page of text that no longer makes any sense in his head. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about staying, but he’s not a stupid man, he understands, maybe even better than Castiel, what that would do to the way their world spins. “Dean, come on. You knew this was going to happen.”

Dean pulls his foot back and stands, bearing down on his brother with just a small portion of the rage he felt for all those weeks. “Why? Why can’t _you_ help me save the fucking universe. One Sam is as good as another, right?”

Castiel opens his mouth but Sam gives an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

Deciding that perhaps this is a conversation best left between them, Castiel blinks out, leaving a sucking void of unanswered questions behind.

“ **So**?”

Sam closes his eyes and sighs before rising up and staring Dean straight in the face. “I don’t belong here. I never did. My time, it passed, it should be relegated to memory. Your Sam is the one that’s needed to - “

“You ARE my Sam. Both of you, all of you. Every single Sam from every bloody moment in the last twenty fucking years. You’re _all_ mine. I don’t… I can’t… you were gone. You promised you’d stay. And now you want to leave again.”

Sam’s done being nice if nice is only going to fuel Dean’s temper. If the man can’t see, Sam will have to make him. “Dean, listen to me. Do you remember what we were doing three years ago? Do you REMEMBER how far apart we were for most of the year? If I stay here, if I don’t do my part to build our history, we may never make it to now.”

Dean’s not one for shedding unnecessary tears, but they begin to fall, and he can’t stop them. Through broken speech and wild hand gestures he finally manages to string a sentence together. “And if you stay you won’t die in that field. Sammy, I can’t do that again. I can’t keep putting you in the ground.”

The fear in Dean’s voice is only matched by the righteous fury at having to say goodbye to his brother, once more, and Sam understands completely how far past the point of rational Dean is.

No amount of words will mop up the hurt still radiating out from Dean’s chest, the ripples in the pond will just keep growing, circling ever outwards, until they drown him.

Stepping forward, Sam forces Dean’s arms down by his sides and wraps him in a hug that would break a smaller man. Laying wet kisses on top of his brother’s head, whispering nonsense words of comfort through his own tears. “Please, stop it. I want to stay, I do. I just can’t. He’s the one you need and I am him. I’m not really leaving, I’m just moving forward. Please, stop.”

Dean allows Sam to try and comfort him whilst chewing a hole in his cheek and furiously wishing he could beat the living hell out of something. The warmth in the circle of Sam’s arms is just another reminder that this reality will end and who knows if the next one will be any better, or any easier to deal with?

From his vantage point on the balcony, hidden from the brothers’ view by pillars and railings, Crowley finds himself lost for a way to process the scene below.

In another life the pain reverberating around the room would have been delicious, a tasty treat to savour, but now it’s simply too heavy to carry or bear witness to.

He’s about to turn and walk away, walk off the confusion of feeling sorry for Sam and Dean, when he feels a shift in the air around him and finds Castiel standing close over his shoulder. “Not so easy this time around, is it?”

“No, Wings, it isn’t.”


	5. Chapter Four

”Shit, just a _little_ more **time**.”

Sam finds Dean sitting on the spiral steps leading out of the Bunker and is struck by just how beautiful his misery is. It’s an odd thing to think, perhaps the cruellest thing he’s ever thought, but true nonetheless. Dean is devastatingly gorgeous when carrying the kind of weight only spoken of in fairy tales and horror stories.

Dean spins his phone between his fingers, flicking it from one hand to the other, wearing a mask of sorrow that only lifts when he hears Sam’s small sad sigh. “Hey, little brother.”

Sam nudges Dean across the stair with his hip and plants himself before bumping shoulders. “What ya doin’?”

“Thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Fuck off.”

“Love to, but you’re slacking.”

“Ha. Ha.” Dean shakes his head then lets it fall onto Sam’s shoulder. “So, no progress?”

Sam leans his cheek against Dean’s head and sighs. “Not so far. Castiel found something about water being a conduit to the past, present, and future. The flow of time, et cetera, et cetera, et-fucking-cetera. My brain’s too fried to get it.”

“Welcome to my world.”

Sam notices Dean gripping the phone tight enough that the blood has drained from his knuckles and finds himself reaching for it. As he wraps his fingers around the device, Dean almost snatches it away, before relinquishing his hold.

Sam straightens up and nods towards the thing now resting in his palm. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Dean blows out a long held breath and shakes his head. “Not really, but you’re a nosey bastard so _want_ is relative at this point.”

Sam snorts and swipes left on the phone, and finds a blinking voicemail symbol staring at him. He doesn’t know why, but the urge to dial Dean’s service hits him, hard. “Can I?”

“Long as I don’t have to hear it again.”

Sam taps out the code needed to access Dean’s messages and places the phone to his ear.

“Dean, listen - **fuck** \- I don’t have much time... I just... I have to tell you.

I know you. I know you’ll try and stop this, reverse it or some stupid bullshit. _Don’t_.

Jesus fucking Christ this _hurts_.

Please, Dean. Don’t.”

Sam pulls the phone away from his face and stares at Dean, who snatches it back and types in the code required to keep the message as ‘New’.

Somewhere inside Sam an alarm bell sounds, a gong is rung that can’t be unrung and something Crowley said earlier suddenly makes complete sense. “Dean, we need to play that to the odd couple.”

“No. Why? No. Wait, did you just call Cas and Douchely the odd couple? Morecambe and Wise or Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon?”

Sam frowns and makes to stand. “Waldorf and Statler, actually. How do you know who Morcambe and Wise are?”

Dean gives Sam a _duh!_ look. “Charlie.”

“Of course, come on.”

Dean stumbles down the stairs behind Sam and briefly considers running right past the Angel and the Demon with their heads together over the dusty pages of an ancient tome, but knows he won’t get far, not with Sam’s longer and much younger legs to contend with. “You two canoodling or just playing footsie under the table?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Both. Problem?”

Castiel splutters but doesn’t correct him, simply shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “You have something?”

Sam nudges Dean and nods at the phone. “Maybe. Listen to this, but first, Crowley tell Dean what you just said to me.”

“That you need a haircut and someone to take you off at the knees, you giant giraffe?”

Sam growls and grinds his teeth. “After **that**.”

Castiel hides his grin behind his hand and motions for Crowley to continue.

Crowley shakes his head and smirks before adopting a studious look. “Once upon a time... No? Okay, wrong one...”

Crowley holds his hands up at Sam who’s so close to socking the Demon in the mouth he’s started hissing. “Fine fine, don’t get all rabid puppy on me. We need something that connects the you from Dean’s original reality to the you now. If we could just find a way to force a link, we could step over that timeline and create a new one. It’s all about intent, if the intent is to fix not fuck up, we should be able to rewrite the past and future.”

Sam pries the phone from Dean’s fingers and hands it to Castiel, knowing that he’d rather Crowley didn’t hear the message. Sam would prefer the Demon didn’t hear it either, truth be told. “Listen to that, the code is - “

“I know the code.”

“So do I.”

Dean’s incredulous face is only bettered by Sam’s amused one.

“How the fuck do you two know my voicemail code?”

“Angel.”

“Demon.”

“Jackasses.”

“Children.”

Dean shakes himself and turns his back on the three men all staring at him. “Play it, just, not on speaker.”

Castiel taps in the correct numbers and begins to listen. As the voice on the other end of the line wafts into his ear his face goes slack. Something in the back of his mind _pings_ and he **sees** the time lines. Pasted over the top of Sam’s worried face and Crowley’s sarcastically bored one, playing out along the curve of Dean’s spine as he hunches his back and shoulders.

The final words are spoken and Castiel surges forward. “That is it! Death said - “

Dean catches the phone before it hits the floor and automatically renews the message without looking at the screen. “ **Death?!** ”

“Yes Dean, Death. I told you he helped us get here. He said you had a voice message, it was important. I had forgotten.”

“Never, Asstiel the all seeing one, forgot something?”

“Sit on it, Crowley.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, but I might kiss yours.”

Sam steps between Crowley and Castiel before they start either throwing punches or making out, and holds up his hands. “CAS! Back to the point! How is the message important?”

Castiel squints at Crowley who’s giving him an indefinable look from the other side of Sam, before shaking himself and continuing. “I do not know how, he simply said it was. If Crowley is right and my theory about water being a way into the stream of time is also correct, then we have a way to send this Sam back and snatch our Sam from the Empty.”

Dean watches Sam’s face fall then school his features enough to paper over the hurt hiding behind his eyes. “You do realise Billie is going to be all over us like a rash, don’t you? I’m surprised she hasn’t shown up already.”

Crowley sits down in the closest chair and starts randomly flipping pages in the book open on the table. “I have a theory about that.”

“Feel free to share, clever clogs.”

“Seriously, Cas, you’ve been spending far too much time with the English Evil Overlord.”

Castiel ignores Dean’s barb and pokes Crowley in the shoulder. “Come on, theory?”

“Yes, Death sent us here. Which means the big cheese is back in charge, right? Only horseman left standing trumps angriest soul sister that ever lived, surely?”

Sam’s just about caught up on who Billie is and why she’s pissed at them, but the reasoning behind her vengeance isn’t big or bad enough to explain why she’s so hell bent on throwing their asses into a void of nothing. “I get we killed Death, okay, Dean killed Death. Smart move by the way, big brother.”

“Don’t start, you were about to be dead, like ALWAYS.”

“Anyway, there must have been a vacuum in command, right? Did she step in out of necessity or want? Is she more _you_ or **him**?”

Castiel considers Sam’s question for a moment. “I took up arms because it was needed. Crowley usurped the throne because he wanted to - ”

“I didn’t usurp, I reappropriated!”

“ - are you asking if she has a grander scheme running under the surface of her actions or was she simply in the right place to be of use?”

Sam nods. “Yes.”

“No idea, and right now we have bigger things to worry about. We will have to keep an eye out for her and ward against interference, but for now, let us focus on the problem in front of us.”

********************

The problem in front of them is literally the problem in front of them.

Standing at the edge of a cliff, leaning over the precipice, watching the river flow hard and fast into a swirling lagoon, Sam and Dean have no bloody idea how they’re meant to get down to the mouth of the cave well-hidden behind tumbling water.

“They couldn’t have given us a lift?”

_”The path you tread must be of your own choosing.”_

“Don’t quote that bird brain at me. The path we tread will end in broken necks if we can’t find a safe way down.”

Sam snorts at Dean’s frustration and starts testing the sturdiness of rocks lining the edge of the cliff with the toe of his boot. “We could abseil.”

“We could throw ourselves out of a perfectly good plane, too, but that ain’t happening today, either.”

“So, Base Jumping is out of the question, I assume.”

“Too fucking right it is.”

The brothers continue to bicker, stalling for time.

Castiel and Crowley stand off to the side, hidden from Sam and Dean’s sight by thickets of bushes surrounding the top of the waterfall.

Castiel is continuously surprised by how invested Crowley has become in the wellbeing of the Winchesters. The Angel isn’t sure if it’s because they’ll owe him one, or if he is _actually_ concerned for them.

It is not for the Angel to poke that particular nest of hissing vipers. He might not like what slithers out. Plus, Castiel’s come to enjoy the Demon’s company, which in and of itself is just wrong on every level, but the inner workings of their relationship have always been somewhat of a mystery to him.

If Dean and Sam can work as a unit, why can’t he and Crowley?

Shaking his head, attempting to derail his train of thought, Castiel turns to Crowley and sighs. “Are we going to help them?”

Crowley huffs out a breath. “Are we allowed? You’re the one who preached at them for an hour saying that they had to choose their own road.”

The lines have definitely blurred since landing in this particular reality. Castiel finds himself continuosly frustrated at not being able to intervene but he understands the risks involved in taking the decision out of the brothers’ hands. Doesn’t mean he isn’t hopping up and down wishing he could do more. “I said it, that does not mean I meant it. As long as their intention is to make it to the cave, we are safe to assist, I think.”

Crowley peeks through the leaves obscuring his view and snorts before physically turning Castiel’s head towards the men still standing on the top of a bloody huge drop off. “Looks to me like their intention is to start bumping uglies. We might want to get involved or we’ll be treated to our very own gay porn show.”

Castiel follows Crowley’s line of sight and rolls his eyes. “Typical. Death, disaster, peril of unspeakable depths, and they end up horny.”

Forestalling the removal of any clothing, Castiel and Crowley both click their fingers in unison, sending Sam and Dean neatly into the cave below.

************

Dean’s taken aback by his sudden change in location, stumbling up against Sam’s broad chest. “What the fu - “

Sam catches Dean automatically and settles him on his feet. “I do believe we just got Crowley and Castiel’d. Not interfering, my ass.”

Despite the levity in his words, Sam feels the weight of a decision he’s still unsure of. He knows logically he isn’t blinking himself out of existence by doing this, but the memories he’s made whilst being with Dean, here and now, will be wiped from his mind, or so he assumes.

The loss of closeness between them if he does remember will be almost worse than having the entire episode stripped from time.

As Dean watches Sam’s big brain turn over and over, it’s only the slight sheen in his eyes that forces him into action.

Stepping forward, sliding a big paw along Sam’s jawline, Dean grips his face, tight. “We don’t have to do this. We could just run. Sod the universe and all it’s problems.”

Sam’s smile is both adoring and sad. “No, you couldn’t. You might want to but… “

With no one here to oversee their actions, Dean knows the wall he’s been slowly building around the thought of losing Sam again, will surely crumble.

He can still taste the dried blood on his lips from laying himself across and refusing to let go of Sam’s broken body.

The man in front of him isn’t that Sam, but he is still Dean’s brother and what if... “What happens if this doesn’t work? If I play that message and then nothing? Or, if you’re taken but he isn’t returned? I don’t know if I can - “

Sam grips the back of Dean’s head and slams his lips down on the mouth still trying to work out the what if’s.

Tangling his tongue with Dean’s, Sam forces all thought from his brother’s overactive mind, and for the briefest moment they’re both content to pretend this isn’t a goodbye.

Sam finally allows Dean up for some air and is shocked to find wetness on his cheeks.

It isn’t Dean who’s crying, so logic dictates it’s him, however Sam’s unaware of when the glistening droplets started flowing and how to stop them from drowning him and his brother in a deluge of loss and sorrow. “I… We have to… Where’s the phone, Dean?”

Dean slowly, oh so fucking slowly, slides his hand in his pocket and pulls out the phone, still with the flickering message light incessantly blinking.

Closing his eyes, reaching out blindly for Sam’s shirt, Dean twists his fist into the material and yanks, almost toppling his brother, who’s eyeing the device like it may explode in their faces.

“Ready?”

“No.”

“Me either.” Sam slips his fingers into Dean’s back pocket and hooks his thumb in a stray belt loop and peers over his shoulder.

The hand free to hold the phone is inactive. Stoutly refusing to move, to swipe left, so Sam lays his thumb atop Dean’s and slides it gently across. “We have to.”

From the speakers comes Sam’s voice. Eerily calm considering the already mortal wounds he’s been given.

As the words flow through time and surround them both with the voice of a man intent on having his say, Sam feels a tug just below his navel. Something grabbing at him, pulling him backwards, away from Dean.

“Dean, listen - **fuck** \- I don’t have much time... I just... I have to tell you.

I know you. I know you’ll try and stop this, reverse it or some stupid bullshit. _Don’t_.

Jesus fucking Christ this _hurts_.

Please, Dean. Don’t.

I love you. I know we don’t say it, I know we don't…

Shit, just a _little_ more **time**.

Look, remember, I chose this life.

I know you came to get me but I chose to stay, I picked the path back to you and us, every time. Don't let our memories be tainted by yet another wasted foolish deal.

Live the life we promised each other.

I **love** you.”

The message ends, and Dean automatically renews it without thinking. Thumb tapping out a code that is etched into the backs of his eyelids.

As Dean enters number after number, Sam’s sense of being stretched suddenly just stops. He snaps back into place, like a rubber band twanging from the end of a ruler. “Stop. Dean, you have to delete it.”

“I can’t.”

“You _have_ to.”

“I **can’t**.”

Dean’s eyes are still closed, lips thin and pale, cheeks hollow.

Sam takes the fingers from his brother’s pocket and stands in front of him. “Look at me.”

Dean’s lids flicker, his lashes flutter against his cheeks. Eyes swimming with fear and grief stare out at Sam, willing him not to push. “Please, don’t make me.”

Sam slides a hand onto Dean’s shoulder and forces him down, making him sit on the damp floor of the cave, before lowering himself to the ground. “Together.”

Sam lays a hand on top of Dean’s, still gripping the phone hard enough he fears the screen might shatter.

 Dean nods and presses play.

“Dean, listen - **fuck** \- I don’t have much time... I just... I have to tell you.”

The words engulf both men, filling their heads with the sacrifice Sam was willing to make in order for Dean not to risk bringing him back.

As the message rolls on, Sam’s thumb touches Dean’s, which is hovering over the delete key.

“Live the life we promised each other. I **love** you.”

Before Dean can change his mind Sam slams his thumb down, only allowing the pressure off when he hears the distinct click and hum that means all messages are now erased.

Dean’s eyes turn frantic when Sam’s whole body starts to fade. He becomes thinner and thinner until there’s barely a hint of him left, other than his voice; just above a whisper but echoing on and on and on.

“Live that life, Dean.”

And then he’s gone.

Dean can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t feel, he simply wants to crawl from the cave and throw himself into the pounding water.

He’s seriously contemplating doing just that when from nowhere a hand lands heavy on his neck. Fingernails scrape against his clammy skin and he’s afraid to turn for fear he’s imagining things.

“Dean.”

It can’t be.

“Please.”

What if it’s his mind, finally broken?

“Don’t ignore me, jackass!”

Dean practically flies from the floor and clings to the man standing in front of him.

The man who has a look of utter fury on his face.

Sam allows Dean to wrap him in a hug that crushes ribs and makes his muscles burn before pushing him back, holding his shoulders and shaking him, hard. “What did you **do**?”

Dean’s entire body is vibrating with relief and elation and yet the look on Sam’s perfect unblemished face is starting to harsh the buzz he’s feeling. “What I had to, what I was _told_ to. Stop speaking and fucking kiss me, you moron.”

There’s something in Dean’s tone of voice that tells him he’ll get all the answers he needs later, and he can decide whether he’s pissed at his brother or not then. For now, Sam’s quite happy to allow the shaking hands grasping at his clothes to push his shirt from his shoulders before being shoved up against a smelly wet cave wall. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too. _Don’t_. **Leave**. _**Again.**_ ”


	6. Chapter Five

Crowley’s unashamedly hiding behind Castiel who’s attempting to stop Sam from sticking an Angel blade up the Demon’s ass.

“What is **he** doing here?”

It's bad enough that now the timelines have righted themselves, Crowley is feeling like someone blitzed his insides. Literally stuck his entire body and brain in a blender and hit Frappe. Having Moose out for his blood, again, is not helping.

Leaning out from behind Castiel’s shoulder, Crowley tries to talk down his favourite rage monster. “Moo - Sam, seriously, Dean would’ve ganked me by now, don’t you think? If I were really trying to kill either of you… I _helped_ , honestly. I do good, I get my arse kicked. I do bad, I get my arse kicked. Is there a scenario in which I **don’t** get my arse kicked?!”

The older Winchester should step in and calm Sam down, but whilst he’s ragging on Crowley, Dean’s relatively safe from scrutiny.

Whether or not Dean was the one to initiate the circumstances surrounding Sam’s working heart and lungs, he’s still going to cop it for going against his brother’s wishes. Not to mention the fact that this all happened because he killed himself.

Throwing Crowley under the bus for a chance at five more minutes un-awkward conversation, Dean smirks and points at the Demon. “Hey, kicking your ass is one of the perks of the job. And I have no clue if you intended to kill either of us, you might just have been biding your time.”

There’s an extremely undignified squeak coming from over Castiel’s shoulder and the Angel is half tempted to step aside and let Sam take out his frustrations, but as fun as that might be to watch, Crowley did actually help, this time. “Sam, calm down. Crowley is telling the truth. He helped bring you back, or the other you, it is all very confusing. Let us just say that without the ex-King of Hell on our side we may never have gotten to Dean on time.”

Sam spins and pins his brother with a glare that could strip paint from walls. “Speaking of, _Dean_ , anything you’d like to discuss with me?!”

“Thanks, Cas!”

“You are welcome, Dean.”

Crowley sags against Castiel’s back, letting his forehead fall forward, landing between the Angel’s shoulder blades. “Thank you.”

Castiel stifles his smile and edges towards the door, with Crowley still using him as an Angelic shield. “You are welcome, Crowley.”

****************

Sam’s pacing the perimeter of Dean’s bedroom, unable to step foot in his own for fear of some magic induced timeline flashback.

He can’t even bring himself to retrieve a set of clean clothes because he doesn’t want any part of a space where Dean committed suicide.

“Sam, calm down. I’m here, aren’t I?”

Sam stops dead still, foot halfway to the floor, mid-step. Slowly lowering his boot, he turns and glares at his brother. “I’m sorry, what? Did you seriously just try and tell me to calm down? You KILLED YOURSELF! You buried my knife in your fucking throat and you want me to **calm down** I - You - “

Dean winces at the fury in his brother’s eyes, the volume of his voice, the way in which his fingers keep curling and uncurling, as if he’s trying to figure out whether to beat the holy hell out of him or not. “Sammy, please, we’ve got bigger prob - “

Dean is physically lifted off his feet as Sam launches himself across the room.

Teeth bared and flashing bright white in the dull light from Dean’s bedside lamp, Sam forms dangerous looking talons with his fingers.

Yanking on Dean’s shoulders, digging his nails in as far as they’ll go, Sam slams him into the wall. Enjoying the **thunk** of skull coming into fast sharp contact with concrete. “What we have is a failure to communicate!”

Sam completely loses all hope of being reasonable as he imagines Dean’s lifeless body slumped against his very own bed and begins to repeatedly shake his brother, almost giving him whiplash. “I asked you to live, Dean. To **live**. You chose to GIVE UP!”

Each word is spat violently into Dean’s slack face and punctuated by the sickening sound of bone connecting with something just as hard.

It’s only when Dean’s eyes glaze over that Sam pulls himself up, has to force himself to unfurl his fingers. The second he stops holding Dean, his brother drops to the floor like a stone in a still pond.

Landing in a heap of juddering limbs, Dean shakes his head and feels his few unscathed braincells rattling around in his skull like marbles. “C-C-Crap, Sammy.”

Sam stares down at his brother; swinging his head from side to side, eyes spinning in their sockets, and is horrified.

Falling to his knees in front of Dean, Sam runs a gentle trembling hand across the crown of his head all the way to the nub of his spine, checking for actual injury. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I... I just... you are so fucking irritating and self sacrificing and  - “

Dean’s smile is watery and wavering, but it’s genuine. Physical assault aside, turns out he and Sammy aren’t that different after all. “S’okay, I may be a bit funky fun times to be around for a while, but I don’t think you damaged anything, other than my pride. You might just have answered who can kick whose ass, though.”

The gratitude in Sam’s eyes is only outshone by the sense of guilt at letting himself go like that. “Seriously, I’m sorry, it’s just… How did you think I would react, when you  - did what you did - because I was gone?”

Dean nods then winces as his head _thumpthumpthumps_. “Sam, I am sorry. I **am**. I won’t ever, not again. I was just so lost. Without you, there’s no real point to me.”

Sam leans forward and gently takes Dean into his arms before pulling back and forcing his brother into a prone position in his lap. “Moron. The whole point of me _is_ you. We have got to stop doing this. It’s no wonder Billie wants our atoms scattered.”

Dean twitches in Sam’s arms, just once.

“What?”

“About that… ”

****************************

Dean’s pretty fucking sure this plan is going to get him killed. If not killed then maimed. “Sammy, seriously, you wanna call on _him_?”

Sam watches his brother’s skin turn four shades paler and isn’t remotely abashed about the evil grin curving his own lips. “Dean, if what you say is true, if _she’s_ a problem, **he’s** the only one we can call!”

“You remember he ended up dead, because of us, right?!”

“Because of you.”

“To save you.”

“Potato potahto.”

“We’re Americans, from Kansas, it’s _always_ potato.”

“He chose to save us.”

“Only because the strongest psychic we’ve ever met compelled him to.”

“Suck it up, Dean. We need his help.”

“We also need to be in one piece if we’re going to fight whatever’s coming.”

“As long as the pieces that hold the guns are intact, that’s debatable.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“I don’t forgive you, yet.”

Castiel’s desperately trying not to knock the brothers’ heads together, because at this specific moment in time he’s attempting to focus on the chanting and the spell ingredients, and the fact that Crowley is crouching so very close over his shoulder. Which should _not_ be affecting him, and yet... “BOYS! Please.”

Crowley knows exactly what he’s doing and he’s not ashamed of it. The Angel with the giant chip on his shoulder and stick up his arse needs to loosen up if he can’t handle a little close proximity. They spent weeks living in each other’s pockets, this shouldn’t be an issue. ”What’s up, Feathers?”

Castiel grits his teeth and continues to grind herbs. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Crowley leans in even closer, allowing the collar of his duster to snag on Castiel’s exposed neck. “Whatever helps you not sleep at night, big guy.”

Sam observes the exchange between the Angel and the Demon and is struck by just how easy they seem to be in each other’s company, despite Castiel’s clear discomfort at Crowley’s closeness. It’s a massive change in play since the last time he saw them together and he doesn’t know whether to be shocked or slightly afraid. “Dean.”

Dean feels Sam tap him on the knee and follows his line of sight before resting his chin on his brother’s shoulder and whispering. “Ohhh’kayyy. That’s new.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“That’s really none of our business.”

“Kinda is.”

“Kinda isn’t, **brother**.”

“Point taken.”

*********************

Two tired beyond the telling of it Hunters, one bone-weary Angel, and a nervous as all hellfire Demon form a rough circle; flanking on all sides an antique bowl filled to the brim with their commingled blood.

Despite the bowl’s still and sturdy position on a plinth, equidistant to each beating or unbeating heart, the liquid within undulates in time to the whispered words of a spell being repeated over and over again by Castiel, who’s voice becomes paper thin as he continues to chant and hope for a non-fiery outcome to the summoning.

Each being staring intently at the blood now practically sloshing over the edges of the bowl, is hoping for the same outcome, but they are each afraid of a very different reaction from the being they’re hoping to pull into their presence.

Dean shrinks back from the building, shimmering circle of light forming in the centre of the room, without ever actually moving his feet. “Here goes nothin’ ”

Sam holds his own position, fully aware any deviation in the construction of the spell could derail its outcome, but turns his head ever so slightly towards his brother who’s worrying at his bottom lip with teeth that are almost chattering. “It’ll be okay, promise.”

Dean doesn’t look at Sam but replies out the side of his mouth. “Holding you to that.”

Every colour in the spectrum, every shifting shade, seeps into the ever-expanding ball of light surrounding the bowl, now hovering two inches above it’s stand.

Crowley clicks his tongue to get Castiel’s attention. “That meant to happen, Feathers?”

Castiel can’t break the monotonous chant but he nods, once, at the Demon before making a complicated hand gesture then clasping his fingers in the prayer position. “We pray, bring him forth, we have need of his infinite wisdom.”

“You have **got** to be kidding me!"

The dissipation of light confuses everyone’s senses enough that not one person gathered and waiting, with hard and painfully held breath, for Death to appear, can actually see the man now dusting himself off of invisible lint. “Seriously, people. I help save these two morons and you _still_ ask of my service?”

Dean quite clearly does not want to be the focus of any kind of conversation between the quite rightly annoyed deity and the people assembled, and so steps back, shifts sideways, and uses his brother as a giraffe sized wall. Effectively blocking himself from Death’s eyeline.

Sam can’t help the smirk at Dean’s uncharacteristically scared demeanor, yet he spreads his shoulders wide, puffing out his chest, allowing his brother the cover he so craves. “S’okay. We’ll be okay.”

Death peers past Sam, who’s still trying to keep Dean sheltered from sight. “You realise I can see you, don’t you, Dean?”

Dean gulps and shrinks into an even smaller ball behind Sam.

It’s not Castiel who steps forward, as expected by everyone, but Crowley.

The Demon takes three steps and is directly facing a being who could tear his vessel to shreds with a simple nod of the head. “You have need of this intel, sir.”

The **sir** pulls Castiel up short. Hell, Crowley taking one for the team pulls the Angel up short, but the _sir_ speaks of a respect rarely shown for any other entity the King has ever encountered. He enjoys the set of Crowley’s shoulders as he squares up to a being that, if annoyed enough, will just click his fingers and atomise the man standing in front of him.

“Do I, now? And what is this intel, exactly?”

Crowley feels the weight of everyone’s expectations settling on his shoulders and wishes he hadn’t started spending so much time with Castiel. If not for that stupid bloody Angel he would never have taken the first step towards possible oblivion. “Billie.”

Death regards Crowley with no small amount of disdain. He’s fully aware that as the man in charge of the ever after, or the route to it, he should be impartial. However the Demon niggles at something under the surface of his skin. Yet during this entire escapade he’s made the effort to be minimally aggravating and has helped to the best of his ability. Perhaps he should rethink his stance on the would-be King.

Sighing, stepping from the centre of the room, giving all involved in the ritual a quasi-heart attack, Death finds an empty chair and lowers himself into it. “ _Billie_. Yes. Something tells me we may well have dropped a ball there.”

It’s not Dean or Sam who step over the line, but Castiel, who surges forward and plants himself squarely in front of Death - now absentmindedly shining the top of his cane with a hanky hastily pulled from his pocket - pushing his luck well beyond the limits. “ _We_? With all due respect, you were the one who appointed her next in command.”

“Excuse me, I was dead.”

“No, you were atomised. You were still an entity of great power and if you did not want her to be your follow-on candidate, you could have done something about it.”

Death doesn’t do abashed, not as a general rule, so the look of guilt that flits across his features allows the rest of the assembled beings a chance to breathe without worrying about being destroyed for their impertinence. “Point well made.”

Sam finally stops shielding his brother and takes a chance. “No, the point is, how do we stop her?”

Death regards the younger Winchester with something akin to disgusted respect. He wishes he’d never set eyes on either of the brothers, but he cannot deny their usefulness or their impact on the way the cosmos spins. “Good question. I’m open to suggestions.”

Dean decides if he’s ever going to stop cowering like a fool, now’s the time. “Open to suggestions? You run the fucking universe! How are **we** meant to come up with better ideas than you?!”

“Just because one can see the universe, that does not mean one can figure out how to _fix_ the universe, Dean Winchester.”

“It does however mean that you shouldn’t have to ask the mere mortals for help.”

“Mere mortals? I am sorry but I just had to endure having my shortcomings vocalised by a Demon, an Angel and two Hunters. What exactly is mortal about that?”

“Point taken.”

******************

“Are we sure we aren’t just going to piss her off enough to take the lot of us? I mean of all the Reapers we’ve ever encountered, Billie’s got the balls to destroy everything we know. Should we seriously confront her head on? I for one would much prefer sneaking up behind her with the world’s heaviest baseball bat.”

Death allows the sound of Sam’s severe case of verbal diarrhea to cover over the apprehension festering in the pit of his stomach.

As a general rule Death isn’t subject to the same fears and failures as other entities. His job is simple, his goals are few, but in this instance he thinks there’s a huge margin for error. It takes a lot to admit that, even to himself. Although judging by the look on Crowley’s face his thoughts might just be plastered across his features, broadcast for everyone to see.

Crowley’s head is tilted and his eyes are narrowed, tip of his tongue pinned between his teeth as he regards Death with a quizzical look.

Clearing his throat, Death scans the room to see if anyone else has picked up on his train of thought, and is heartened to know that it seems to have gone largely unnoticed by the rest of the occupants of the room.

Far from calming and soothing him, the fact that Death can hide what he’s feeling from all _but_ the Demon with delusions of grandeur, is somewhat unsettling to the deity.

Crowley watches Death try and work out if he’s psychic or just plain perceptive, and feels a sudden rush of power. He feels capable of anything if he can unnerve a being so all knowing. Sidling up to the man slowly polishing the silver topped cane that’s gripped tightly in his hands, Crowley nods towards Sam, Dean, Castiel and Missouri and clicks his tongue. “They don’t know.”

Death pins Crowley with a look reserved for damned fool students who think summoning him will help them pass their AP Calculus tests, and raises an eyebrow. “Know _what_?”

Despite the irritating smugness radiating towards Death, Crowley has the good grace to shuffle on the spot and stare intently at the toes of his shoes before answering in a hushed tone. “They don’t know you’re just as afraid as they are.”

Death could quite easily dissipate the Demon’s molecules, remove his essence from the universe, but he finds himself relieved to be able to drop the facade of confidence, if only for a moment. “How is it, _Crowley_ \- “

The intonation on his name sends a shudder down Crowley’s spine, but he braves looking Death right in the eye, pushing his shoulders back, straightening in the face of possible destruction.

“ - that of all the eyes in this room, yours are the ones that see what I don’t want them to?”

“I spend a good portion of my time pretending to be all knowing and effortlessly powerful. It’s all a big smoke screen. I don’t know what I’m doing any more than bird brain and the bumble twins, over there.”

Death finds himself smiling, despite his distaste for the Demon now smirking at him.

The corner of Death’s mouth twitches ever so slightly as he nods at Crowley before his features regain their usual air of disapproval.

Crowley decides he’s pushed his luck far enough and steps away from Death, but not before nodding back, once. “Right you lot, we’ve got work to do.”

“Don’t be tellin’ me we got work to do, Demon. I was workin’ this kinda Hoodoo before you even thought o’ stuffin’ that tarnished crown on ya head.”

“Nice to have you with us, Miss Missouri.”


	7. Chapter Six

As Death watches the ragtag band of brave and stupid individuals step into their designated places with the psychic directing them none-too-politely, he wonders how much of this truly is his fault.

Yes, he could have come back to himself a lot sooner and without the meddling of celestial do-gooders and Demons with their own agendas, but he wasn’t ready to take the baton back. He needed some down time. As shaming as _that_ is to admit, he just needed some time where he wasn’t responsible for rounding up the Winchesters, fixing their muck ups, and ferrying souls through the veil. Wrangling the Reapers is no picnic either. It’s not like they have beepers and cell phones; well, not most of them, anyway. Billie and Tessa were and are very much exceptions to all the rules.

Which is probably where he went wrong in the first place.

Allowing Tessa the free rein to attempt to take her own life, and Billie the chance to take over the known universe, that _is_ **all** his doing.

He trained them, he nurtured them, he didn’t squash their urges to be more involved in the running of things or develop their personalities past the usual package delivery mode that most Reapers are programmed for.

His exhaustion at infinite millennia of ruling the mortal coil obviously took a toll on his higher brain functions.

Existence was so much easier and a lot simpler before he met the Winchesters. He never used to ponder the inner workings of his own world, or navel gaze. Now he spends the majority of his time wondering where the hell he went wrong.

Death realises that as much as Dean and Sam have totally destroyed the order of things, he is perhaps just as responsible for allowing that order to be meddled with. It’s time he took his lumps and stepped off the sidelines.

Dean fidgets with the hem of his plaid shirt as he tries not to run screaming from the room. “Take us through it again, Missouri.”

Missouri sighs and rolls her eyes before very calmly listing it all out on her fingers. “One - we summon her here. Two - we give her the option to step down from her planned path. Three - we help Death absorb her back into himself if she refuses. And boys, Im’ma bet my house and all my very fancy throw pillows that she’s gonna refuse.”

Dean looks at Missouri like she’s grown a second head. “You do realise that we’re about to become the number one targets for a Reaper on a rampage. Why can’t we just shove an Angel blade up her - “

“No!”

Death’s tone of voice leaves no room for argument, but Dean’s never been accused of being smart when it comes to keeping his mouth shut. “Why not? She’s a loose canon, she’s capable of destroying everything we know, why can’t we kill her?!”

Death sighs and steps out of his position at the centre of the circle of people surrounding him. Instead of playing the ‘all knowing’ card, he goes with actual honesty. Mostly. “Dean, for all of her faults, she is a part of me. When a Reaper is destroyed I feel it. She’s become so powerful in my absence that killing her will weaken me to the point that the mortal coil will be affected. We’re attempting to stop the end of all things, not hasten its approach.”

“What I don’t get - “

Dean and Death swing their heads in unison towards Sam, who’s been quietly listening to their exchange.

“ - is if we were rescued, revived, whatever, why is it _you_ that has to absorb her. You could have done this ritual without either of us, right? What part is it we’re meant to play?”

Missouri, who’s been silently observing Death’s attempts to explain himself to Dean, wonders if the deity will be truly honest, or skirt the issue.

“I couldn’t tell you. I can see the rotation of the planets, not every individual being’s reason for being on said planets.”

Missouri knows that’s a bold faced lie, but she’s not going to be the one that outs Death, and she’s certainly not in the mood to try and assuage the explosion of anger and fear that will accompany any real explanation the Winchesters are given.

Sighing and taking a small but sure step forward, she clicks her fingers and clucks at the three men. “Boys, boys, we need to get this party started. We can discuss the finer points of why, later.”

Castiel and Crowley stand next to each other, not close enough to communicate without being noticed, but near enough that the look which passes between them flies under the radar.

It says, in no uncertain terms, _Bullshit_.

Castiel’s not sure why but he doesn’t trust a single word out of Death’s mouth right now, and from the look on Crowley’s face, he’s feeling exactly the same way. However, there is no other way to force Billie to relinquish her hold over the power she’s been slowly amassing in Death’s absence. If they don’t stop her she’ll remake the universe the way she sees fit. Which means Dean and Sam will be rotting in the Empty and Death himself will be obsolete. All chaos will be eradicated.

Chaos might be just that, chaotic, but without it the cosmos will cease to be. You cannot have light without dark and you cannot have order without chaos. Everything must balance.

Missouri shoos Death back into the center of the circle before pointing a finger at Sam and Dean in turn. “Be _quiet_.”

Sam tries to hide the small grin curving the corners of his mouth as Dean makes hand gestures behind Missouri’s back.

“Don’t think I don’t know what ya doin’ Dean Winchester. I’m not above puttin’ you over my knee.”

The laughter Crowley and Sam let loose is only bested by the snort Castiel gives as Dean’s face goes completely white.

Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Way to ruin a perfectly good fantasy, Missouri.”

“Shouldn’t be thinkin’ ‘bout things like that at a time like this anyway.”

“I wasn’t, but you - Never mind.”

********************

The sound of windows shattering inwards and the feel of tiny shards of glass embedding themselves in every available bare piece of flesh, forces everyone surrounding Death to their knees.

For his part, Death only stands his ground because he’s using all his available strength to push back against the wind whipping around him, standing at right angles to the ground beneath his feet which is undulating, shuddering with a force that threatens to bring the building down around their ears.

“Well, well, well. Look here. Thought you were a much beloved memory.”

The echo in Billie’s voice instantly stops the complete chaos surrounding the group of dishevelled do-gooders. Bits of glass and masonry drop out of the air, smashing against the concrete floor, and Dean has to fight the urge to cover his ears.

Sam slides his body sideways, close enough to his brother to snatch his hand and squeeze, before standing, dragging Dean with him. “Billie, we need to - “

Billie’s eyes are pin pricks; beady and cold and unforgiving, and they’re pointed straight at Sam. “I could’a sworn you were languishin’ in the Empty, Sam Winchester. Do enlighten me as to the how of your escape. I’d be so interested to know who sprung you.”

“That would be me.”

Missouri uncurls herself, fixing the Reaper with a glare just as a strong and just as hard and walks forward, planting herself directly in harm's way. “I thought p’haps we needed to level the playin’ field. What d’ya think?”

Billie tilts her head and smiles. A snake like grin that curves up one corner of her mouth, as she crosses her arms across her brown leather clad chest. “My quarrel isn’t with you, old woman. It’s with _them_.”

Despite the fact that Crowley’s never been loyal to anyone but himself, he finds his feet moving of their own accord as he attempts to step between the psychic and the Reaper. “Show a little respect, you abomination.”

Castiel snatches at Crowley’s arm, tangles his fingers in scratchy material, before dragging the Demon backwards. “ _Crowley_.”

Billie out and out guffaws at Crowley’s attempt at chivalry before fixing him with a glare that could melt ice. “Abomination? I do believe you’ve got that backwards, Demon.”

Sam and Dean, still clasping each other’s hands, step up next to Crowley who’s being held back by Castiel.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and wafts his hand in Billie’s face. Fighting hard not to snatch it back just in case he loses it. “Least he isn’t trying to destroy our entire universe.”

Billie spins on Dean, fixing him with a look that says she’s hungry and his soul will be an enjoyable little appetiser. “ **You** were meant to have bumped yourself off. I’m pretty sure my little ‘vision’ of Sammy tipped you off the raggedy edge.”

Dean’s blood runs cold as he remembers the opaque visage of something wearing his brother’s face, promising peace if he just took that final step into the dark. “I fucking knew that was you, you evil bitch!”

“You’d know evil, Dean Winchester.”

Throughout the entire exchange Death stands as still as a stone, refusing to move, yet knowing he’s going to have to initiate the final stages of a plan not discussed with either Winchester. He’s loathe to reveal himself because even he, who has no real feel for human emotion, knows that this will either destroy the brothers, or cause a rift so deep they won’t be able to recover from it.

“So, let me get this straight. Y’all have come together to what, talk some sense into me?”

Death takes a deep breath and slides in front of the Angel, Demon, Hunters and Psychic, placing himself directly in Billie’s eyeline. “No, they’ve come together to help me stop you. To try and dissuade you from this path you’ve put yourself on. Billie, I never said you should eradicate all chaos. I know these two complete morons are infuriating, but attempting to settle all the unsettled things in the universe? That’s insanity. It will destroy everything we work to protect.”

“Hey!”

Sam’s the first to object to the title Death’s laid at their feet, but Dean’s the one who squeezes Sam’s hand and tugs, letting him know that now is maybe not the best time to get into whether or not they qualify as moronic.

Billie doesn’t know whether to laugh or rage.

This being with limitless power was her mentor, was the one who gave her the ability to change that which needed changing, and here he stands, arm in arm with those who need to be removed in order for the universe to function properly. “You make me sick. You have all the power in the cosmos, to stop these two, to stop all the crazy we have to wade through every single day, and yet you don’t! I’m doing what needs to be done, to remake the world the way it should be.”

Death knows that he is solely responsible for her complete mania but he’s still extremely sad, if what he feels is in fact sadness, that he’s going to have to recycle Billie. She had such potential. “Billie, you have two choices. If you do not _stop_ I will have to absorb you. The universe **needs** chaos. You cannot have dark without light, chaos must exist to buffer order. They bleed into each other. One without the other tips balance and the universe _will_ implode.”

Billie regards Death with disgust. How can he say these things to her? “I only wanted to right the wrongs. To make a world you’d be proud of. I can’t stop, this is how it should be.”

Missouri knows what will happen next, but she’s not sure she has the strength to bear it. Watching Dean and Sam together, united against something so powerful it could destroy the very center of them. Seeing the Demon, redemption granted in the eyes of the Angel who’s slowly falling in love with what Crowley could be, is trying to be. It pains her beyond the telling that she’s going to have a hand in blowing it all to pieces. “Listen up, little girl.”

Billie’s face is a picture of fury as she turns on Missouri. “Little girl, **little girl**?”

“ _Little girl_. You’ve taken the grand plan and tried to mould it to your will. That makes you a little girl. A toddler ragin’ against her parent’s wishes.You completely decimated the veil. Where are the spirits meant to reside when they’re pickin’ their own path? How are they ‘sposed to decide where they go from there?!”

Billie’s face is twisted into an ugly sneer as she replies. “Up or down.”

Missouri shunts Death out of the way whilst waving down Sam and Dean’s protests. “No, you fool. They have to decide. Free will, that’s the whole point, even after death. Ghosts may be a royal pain in the backside but they help keep the crazy going. The crazy is what makes the simple and sane worthwhile. It’s all a part of how the world turns.”

Billie’s face is becoming more and more distorted with anger, the way she glares at Missouri would make a lesser person shrink back, beg for mercy, but the psychic simply stands her ground; planting her hands on her hips, tilting her head towards the Winchesters, she clicks her tongue and whistles. “Listen up, sister. You may be a bein’ with power beyond what I could ever grasp, but I _know_ right from wrong. These boys, for all their faults, they’re on the side of right. Removin’ them will not only set in motion events even you can’t comprehend, but it will just go to show you have no clue how it’s all really meant to work.”

“ **Enough!** ” The booming echoing sound of Death’s voice reverberating around the room makes everyone in it wince and hunch their shoulders, Billie included.

Instead of cowering, Billie turns to Sam and Dean. “Have they told you?”

The brothers raise their eyebrows and tilt their heads, almost a picture perfect copy of each other.

Dean continues to grasp Sam’s hand but steps slightly forward. “Told us what?”

“What you’ll have to give for this plan to work.”

Sam, from behind Dean, fixes Death with a steely stare. “I knew it. I knew this was too easy. What exactly do we have to _give_?”

Death doesn’t answer, doesn’t look Sam, or Dean, in the eye, simply bows his head. “I am sorry.”

As the only people in the room without prescient powers, Sam and Dean are at a slight disadvantage when it comes to preternatural instincts, but their Hunter knowledge kicks in and both of them reach into the waistband of their jeans; pulling out guns filled with Devil’s Trap bullets and levelling them at Death. Neither one knows if the warding etched into the metal will do a damned thing to the deity refusing to make eye contact, but it’s better than nothing.

Dean’s the one who grits his teeth and demands answers. “What, what exactly do we have to GIVE?!”

Death sighs and opens his mouth but it’s Missouri who steps up in front of Dean, raising her hands, forestalling any pointless violence. “The universe requires, no it demands, balance. Billie is... she’s too powerful to just cease to be. Even if Death manages to absorb her, someone needs to take her place. There’s going to be a vacuum, a sucking void where she existed. The grand scheme must be maintained.”

Castiel grasps it before the brothers but only because he has enough intimate knowledge of how fucked up Chuck’s mind is. He knows that the almighty has a sense of humour, even if it isn’t funny for everyone. “NO!”

“Feathers, you know she’s right.”

Castiel turns on Crowley, using all his celestial strength to try and beat him bloody. Working out his frustrations on a Demon who six months ago might have happily engaged in a fight to the death with the Angel, but now just feels sorrow for his pain. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

Castiel hears his name in Crowley’s lilting tongue and it brings him up short. “But, we could... they could… “

“No, they can’t. This is how it’s got to be, Wings.”

“It’s not fair.”

Sam suddenly understands what they have to do, and he’s calmer than expected, calmer than his brother who is depressing the trigger on his gun, ready to put a bullet hole in Death, who’s silently mouthing the words to a chant no one else would understand even if they could hear it.

Billie drinks in the pain surrounding her. Relishes the hurt and hatred radiating from the Winchesters. They’re cowardly men, and there’s no way they’ll step up, she’s very soon going to be free to walk her chosen path. To right all the wrongs Death has allowed to go unpunished.

She’s about to start gloating in Death’s face when Dean speaks.

“Can we share it? Does it have to be one of us?”

“No. You can split the burden.”

Dean turns to Sam, still gripping his fingers tightly. “How about it, little brother? Maybe we could do some good, and I’m sure we’ll get days off for good behaviour.”

Sam looks over Dean’s head to Death who’s still mouthing unknown words. “We can’t hunt any more, can we?”

The sorrow in Sam’s voice shocks everyone, not least Sam himself, who wasn’t aware he valued this life quite as much as he apparently does.

Death stops uttering his unknown chant long enough to smile, a genuine smile, full of hope and humour. Possibly even pride. “I’ll make you a deal, boys. If you agree to take on this responsibility, I will allow you to lead relatively normal lives, what passes for normal in your insane world, but when I call… when I need you, you come, no questions asked. And the job, it’s non negotiable. We Reap.”

Billie tries to throw herself at the brothers; hands shaped into vicious looking claws, nails ready to rip eyeballs from sockets, but she comes up against an invisible wall of power that throws her backwards and everyone in the room suddenly understands what Death was uttering under his breath.

As her head makes contact with the concrete floor Billie howls. “NO. This isn’t possible. They’re cowards, cowards and trouble makers. They aren’t important enough to - “

Castiel hoicks up his trousers and crouches just out of reach of the Reaper now beating her fists on the floor in a fury that won’t be abated. “What you fail to see is that they are all the things humans are meant to be, Billie. Sam and Dean should have walked away from this life so many times over the years, and yet here they stand, willing to take on powers and problems they have no understanding of, because it will _help_. We should all be so lucky to be like Sam and Dean Winchester. They **are** heroes.”

Sam uses the toe of his boot to nudge Castiel’s ass as Dean smirks at their best friend. “Didn’t know you cared, Cas.”

Cas straightens and smiles at Dean who’s clearly trying to fight back the fear of the unknown. “Shut up. Idiot.”

Billie’s screaming and hollering; shouting words in languages no one but Death understands. This was her time, she was going to fix everything. How **dare** they?

Death looks down on his protégé with what passes for regret, and motions for the Winchesters to stand closer. “So, just a heads up, there’s a few things you need to know before we make you into the universe's most unconventional Reapers.”


	8. Chapter Seven

Missouri lends her strength, what little she has left, to Death as he binds Billie, forcing her into silence with a few whispered words of Enochian.

As Death continues to restrain the rogue Reaper, Missouri becomes almost weightless, like her entire body is no heavier than a feather, and could blow away any moment. She’s about to close her eyes and allow herself to float away when long spindly fingers close themselves around her arm.

Death knows the toll this is taking on the Psychic and won’t allow her to give her last for this, for him. “Madam, not yet.”

Three simple words and Missouri feels whole and solid again. Like Death has tethered her here. “Thank you.”

Dean and Sam are huddled in the corner; seated on a broken piece of masonry, heads pressed together, foreheads almost touching.

Dean sighs, closes his eyes and the small distance between them. “What are we doing?”

Sam smiles sadly at his brother before reaching out and cupping his cheek. “What we have to.”

Leaning into the touch, pushing his face into his brother’s hand, Dean huffs out a breath and laughs humorlessly. “Just out of interest, why’s it always _us_ that have to do it?”

Sam shifts slightly and touches his lips to Dean’s forehead, dropping a gentle kiss to the flushed skin. “Because no one else knows it needs doing. Sorry Dean, looks like we’re the last line of defence.”

“Again.”

“Always.”

“Least we’re together.”

Sam runs the pad of his thumb beneath Dean’s eye, forcing him to lift his lids and focus. “Where else would we be?”

Dean grins at Sam. “A bar somewhere, cold beer and a burger in front of us. Salad for you, ya freak. You know what, though?”

“What?”

“I’m kinda hoping I get my own kick ass scythe.”

Sam’s laugh is loud and full of incredulous love.

Castiel and Crowley mirror the Winchesters almost perfectly, as they too have found their own little corner to sit in and talk. To try and block out the events about to happen.

The conversation isn’t quite as masked; no humour papering over fear, or sarcasm to take pressure off the inevitable, but there’s a tinge of sadness to the hushed words passing between the Demon and the Angel.

The show of affection isn’t quite as overt as Sam and Dean’s, but Crowley still has his fingers wrapped tightly around Castiel’s knee, and the Angel’s hand is laying atop them, squeezing hard, grateful for the support, despite not fully understanding the gratitude or the other far more complicated emotions that keep bubbling up to the surface of his consciousness.

Crowley whistles sharply, bringing Castiel’s bowed head up, crystalline blue eyes swimming with something that tastes very much like regret.

Crowley can feel it dancing on the tip of his tongue, and usually he would savour the flavour of his enemy's pain, but this creature isn’t wholly his enemy anymore. “This isn’t your fault, Feathers. They made their own decision. As they were meant to.”

Castiel snorts, shaking his head and closing his eyes again. “It feels very much like my fault, Crowley. I helped bring them back, only to have them take on _this_. We should have left them where they were.”

Crowley bites down on his bottom lip, bows his own head and sighs before doing something he never thought he would; looking up at Castiel through his lashes, the Demon reaches out the hand not gripping the Angel’s leg, places one finger beneath his chin and forces his face upwards. “Look at me. Wings.”

Sighing, Crowley leans forward, allowing his breath to ghost against Castiel’s cheek. “Castiel, look at me.”

Castiel finally opens his eyes and is met with a look on Crowley’s face that pulls him up short.

What he sees is compassion. Sorrow. Maybe even a little regret.

These aren’t emotions the Angel is used to seeing or feeling from the Demon, but they are there nonetheless. Plain as day and as confusing as hell.

Instead of saying anything, not knowing if his voice will crack and reveal the strange thoughts filtering through his mind, Castiel simply nods and squeezes the fingers still holding tightly to his leg.

********************

Billie is bound; she rotates slowly four feet off the ground, lips sealed shut, eyes wide open and staring accusingly every time her face passes by one of the people all stood in a circle around her.

Castiel knows the answer before he asks the question but he has to be sure. “Can she hear us, see us?”

Death can’t see the Angel properly, only glimpses of tan trenchcoat and mussed up hair, because he is directly across the circle, being blocked from view by the levitating Reaper. He aims his response into thin air, glad he can’t see the look of horror on Castiel’s face. “She has to be. For this to work she has to be conscious. It’s the only way to transfer her powers.”

There’s a small sharp intake of breath followed swiftly by a cough attempting to cover over the obvious disgust at the thought that they are going to have to destroy Billie whilst she’s awake and watching them.

That disgust doesn’t come from Castiel or the brothers, but Missouri, who hasn’t really got a bad bone in her body. She’ll step up and do the right thing when required but the Psychic despises the thought of causing any living creature pain, even those that really deserve it. “We sure we can’t - “

Death sighs and shakes his head at the woman stood directly to his right. “I’m afraid not, Madam. She has to be awake.”

“Don’t seem right to me, is all. Sufferin’ for the sake o’ sufferin’ is just cruel.”

Crowley, standing close enough to Castiel to reach out and grip his wrist, braves the wrath of a woman quite capable of destroying him. “I’ve seen suffering for the sake of suffering Miss Missouri, and this isn’t that. It’s required for the ritual to work. Death’s not a cruel man, he doesn’t know how to be.”

Dean regards Crowley, watches the Demon tapping his fingers absentmindedly against the back of Castiel’s hand, and wonders exactly how much of this new found _insight and goodness_ is because of the lingering effects of human blood, and how much of it is because of the Angel who now seems quite happy to be being touched by the Demon.

As Dean’s eyes flit away from Crowley, who’s clearly waiting for Missouri to whisper something in Hoodoo and snap his neck, Sam reaches out and taps his brother on the shoulder before whispering. “None of our business, remember?”

Dean replies out the side of his mouth, using the tension filling the room to distract from their quiet conversation. “I said it, I don’t know if I meant it.”

“Too late now.”

Missouri, who can hear everything the brother’s are saying, allows a small satisfied smile to curl the corner of her mouth upward before tilting her head and fixing Crowley with a stare that prevents any further comment. “Your Majesty, I do believe you might be right.” Turning to Death, who’s idly rocking on the spot, sliding from the tips of his toes to the heels of his feet, Missouri nods and motions for him to continue. “Sorry, sir. Carry on.”

“Quite alright, Madam. Anyway, as I was saying. Billie’s essence is no longer that of a pure Reaper, she has powers beyond those I usually bestow upon my messengers, which means I will have to absorb her but distribute the excess evenly between the Winchesters. The powers they receive will no longer be corrupted by her intentions.”

Sam clears his throat. “ _Ahem_ , just out of interest, what are these powers?”

Dean’s voice cuts across his brother’s. “More importantly, we ain’t gonna look like that dude I saw in the faith healer’s tent of horrors, are we?”

Death might not be capable of cruelty in the strictest sense, but he is perfectly able to understand and even enjoy sarcasm. “Dean Winchester, you are without a doubt the most vain man I have ever had the displeasure to meet. No. You will maintain your normal visages. As for the powers, Sam, you’ll be able to see into the veil, which I have restored, and I dare say that will make hunting a little easier. You’ll both be able to communicate non-verbally with each other, and me, when I have need of you. Speaking of which, I cannot reiterate this enough, We Reap. No arguments.”

“Is that it, no fancy powers of flight or anything?”

“ **Dean**.”

“What? That could come in handy. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head as Death snorts and replies. “Actually - “

“Wait, seriously?”

“No, Dean, no _flying_. You’ll be able to transmogrify and teleport, but only in the service of ferrying souls to and from their ever afters.”

“But we can see into the veil and speak without speaking all the time?”

“Yes.”

“ **Cool**.”

Death looks up at the ceiling and thinks calming thoughts before muttering. “Children.” under his breath.

Sam smirks at Dean who’s looking highly amused at having irritated Death to the point where he’s reverted to old man status, before leaning over and whispering. “You realise he can still reap us, right? Shut up!”

Dean’s eyes go wide and his face drains of all colour. “Crap, never thought of that. Right, shutting up.”

Death clicks his fingers and motions for everyone to hold hands.

Crowley and Castiel simply reposition their fingers and raise their arms; Dean and Sam grasp each other’s outstretched hands, and Missouri grips Death’s wrist one side as Castiel does the same on the other.

“The power will flow through each of you, settle with me, then disseminate itself between the Winchesters. Do not let go of each other, understand? We break the chain, the power is lost into the ether and I will not be able to retrieve it. It must come to reside in Sam and Dean or I will be weakened beyond the point of recuperation.”

Sam and Dean both nod once, Missouri clicks her tongue to indicate she’s heard every word and Crowley and Castiel look to each other before saying in unison. “Got it.”

Dean and Sam both roll their eyes but it’s Sam who speaks out. “Cas, you have got to stop spending so much time with that complete plonker.”

“Nice use of the British vocabulary, Moose, but butt out. Who Wings rubs feathers with is none of your gangly business.”

Castiel remains silent but smiles towards Dean who’s shaking his head and smirking at the exchange.

Death’s voice rings out, loud enough to make the entire room vibrate. “ **Enough already. For the love of…** ”

Missouri takes pity on the deity, now looking like he’s ready to tear his hair out.

“Boys, a little quiet, please.”

Death speaks into the absence of sound, taking advantage of the momentary silence. “We call upon the ancient rites of the Almighty to help us transfer these stolen powers.”

As Death’s voice takes on a hollow monotonous quality, Dean and Sam feel a surge of electricity flickering along their skin. Crowley is bent almost supine with the power forcing it’s way through his body, and Castiel’s hair is standing completely on end.

It’s only Missouri who looks unfazed by the force flowing through her.

Sam and Dean are suddenly lifted from the ground, feet dangling in thin air, making it almost impossible to keep a grip of the hands holding them at either side.

Missouri’s fingers latch onto Sam’s hand tight enough for both their knuckles to drain of colour and Castiel yanks Dean’s arm violently.

Still connected via warm flesh and grasping fingers, the brothers back’s crack as they’re completely taken over by an unseen force.

As a low level hum begins to fill the room, Sam and Dean start to scream. The sound is anything but human and it pierces each person’s ears like a blade.

Death keeps intoning nonsense words that are no longer recognisable to even the oldest in the room.

As fast as the hum arrived, it disappears and there’s a giant boom. An Earth shattering sound that signals the final stage of the ritual.

Billie feels her insides begin to burn, blood boiling in her veins and then, she’s gone. Simply snatched from existence.

Where she levitated in front of everyone there is now a ball of light flickering and zipping around manically inside an invisible barrier; bouncing off the edges of a wall no one can see but they can all feel.

Death winces, attempting to block out the brothers’ howls of pain as he channels the last of the spell. “Let it be SO!”

Dean and Sam slam into the ground, shoulders and heads smashing hard into shattering concrete, fingers still tightly wound together, blood pouring from their noses and mouths.

It’s then that Death shakes himself free of the hands still holding him, and throws the ball of light at the brothers. It splits itself in two and slowly sinks into their chests, making them twitch and writhe on the floor, like grotesque marionettes with no strings.


	9. Epilogue

The first time Dean is called upon to Reap someone, he finds himself conjuring the notion that perhaps he could just run, grab his brother and flee. Find a nice little island in the middle of nowhere and live out their eternity sipping cocktails and sunning themselves.

The teenage boy lying still in the hospital bed surrounded by bleeping machines and covered in enough wiring to make him look like a phone exchange, looks up at him with bruised eyes and hollow cheeks, and Dean weeps for the loss of such an innocent soul.

He’s about to walk backwards out of the room when he feels a shift in time and Sam is standing directly behind him; hands splayed out flat against his shoulder blades, forcing him forwards.

“You have to.”

When in the guise of a Reaper, Sam’s voice is somewhat terrifying. It echoes and arrives in Dean’s ears like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. There’s no escaping the fact that despite Sam’s lack of psychic powers, his body and mind were made for something more than humanity.

It horrifies and impresses Dean all at once.

Dean doesn’t bother turning around, simply bows his head and lets the tears fall. “I can’t.”

Fingers weighted with the power gifted to both of them press gently against Dean’s spine. “You **have** to. We have to.”

It’s then that the boy opens his mouth and speaks. “Please. I’m tired.”

Dean steps away from Sam, who walks backwards, settling himself in the corner of the room, melting into the shadows. Lending strength to his brother without interfering in what has to be **his** duty.

Dean lowers himself to the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong with you, kid?”

The boy, Ethan, he should be afraid, what with two strangers in his room, and the feel of his heart slowing in his chest, but he’s not. He knows it’s time. “Cancer. Docs say I’m riddled.”

Dean winces at the flippant tone but doesn’t shy away from the truth of the statement. “So, you want out, huh?”

It’s then that Ethan does something for Dean no one else could have.

Ethan gives Dean a moment of clarity which will serve him well for the rest of his time as a Reaper. Will bolster his heart when it breaks for those he has to snatch away from existence.

“Mama says Death is a release. I don’t know if she’s right, but I do know at this moment it would be a gift. I’ve been dying for what seems like forever. I think it’s about time I stopped avoiding the issue.”

Dean feels Sam’s mind envelope his own as he tries to comprehend the intelligence and acceptance of this statement coming from one so young, and he finds himself reaching out a hand towards Ethan. “Come on then, you got a date with destiny.”

“I’d have prefered a date with Scar-Jo.”

“How old are you, kid?”

“Thirteen.”

“Good taste. Little old for you, but still, good taste.”

Sam watches Dean open the pathway into the veil and sends out a quick goodbye before disappearing from the room. He’s got his own date with a ninety year old woman who’s earned an eternity of knitting and playing with her great grandchildren.

*****************************

There’s nothing quite like a nice cold beer after three days of continuous Reaping _and_ Hunting.

Sam sometimes wonders if it’s a complete cheat to be able to utilise their Reaper powers for their other gig, but he’s not going to look a creepy gift horse in the mouth. Not when it’s saved not only their asses but those of the ones they’re sent to protect.

He’s waxed lyrical several times to Castiel about whether or not it’s bass ackwards to be saving people as Hunters and Reaping them as messengers for Death.

Castiel’s answer is always the same. “Balance in all things, Sam.”

Never one to miss an opportunity to get completely shit faced after a hard day at work, Dean materialises in the kitchen next to his brother.

Sam jumps and almost drops the beer bottle clasped in his hands. “Don’t DO that, you moron. We’re only meant to use that gift when we’re Reaping. Cheat.”

Dean chuckles and snatches the beer Sam’s nursing from his fingers before popping the cap and taking a long pull on the crisp, satisfying liquid.

Getting drunk isn’t quite so easy these days. Their preternatural strength and resilience has it’s plusses; however, it takes a lot more to give Dean that good old fashioned buzz he used to get from throwing back a couple of cold ones after a day at the office.

Dean perches against the edge of the kitchen counter and tips his half empty beer at Sam. “So, little brother, what’s on the agenda for tonight?”

“Sleep.”

“That’s what _you_ think. Still blows my mind we actually need sleep. I swear Death did a number on us with these powers.”

Sam shakes his head and raises an eyebrow, not oblivious to the tone in his brother’s voice but choosing to initially answer his complaint, again, about being stiffed by Death. “He couldn’t have shafted us that badly, Dean; how long has it been since you got an extra wrinkle?”

“I was never wrinkled, cheeky bastard, I was weathered. I dunno, thirty years, give or take.”

Sam nestles himself between Dean’s bowlegs and grins before leaning down and licking up the side of his brother’s neck. “Then stop whining about being fucked over.”

Dean shivers, enjoying the sloppy wet tongue circling his ear lobe. “What did we say about licking, Sammy? Dogs lick, not humans.”

“We’re not humans.”

“Touché!”

Sam huffs a laugh against Dean’s throat as he suckles the flesh between his lips, leaving a bright red mark in his wake. “Speaking of non humans, have you seen the odd couple lately?”

Dean attempts to open his mouth and reply but the noise that escapes his lips is nothing but animal instinct and satisfaction. “Nrrghhh!”

“I’m sorry, what? English, please.”

The smugness in Sam’s voice washes over Dean but he’s seriously not bothered about challenging it when there’s a hand sliding beneath the waistband of his trousers, fingernails scraping along the underside of his cock, which somehow still manages to slap against his belly despite the denim confining it. “Good god, man. You want coherence, don’t go grabbing at things you shouldn’t be grabbing at.”

Sam makes to pull his hand from inside Dean’s trousers only for his progress to be halted by fingers wrapping themselves around his wrist.

“Don’t.”

“You said… “

“Ignore me, when have I ever made sense? Get with the fondling.”

Sam smirks and closes his eyes, concentrating on the buttons keeping Dean’s jeans up.

The sound of small pieces of metal pinging against marble surfaces is accompanied by Dean groaning and bucking his hips. “Show off.”

Sam drops to his knees, allows his mind to open and press gently against Dean’s before tugging his brother’s jeans down over his thighs. “So, the odd couple?”

“Really, now? Fine. Probably doing exactly what we’re doing, only with less finesse and a lot more guilt. Get on with it!”

As always, Dean’s commando and standing to complete attention; tip of his cock bobbing invitingly in Sam’s face, millimeters from lips being licked in readiness for a flavour the younger Winchester is never going to tire of.

Dean jerks his hips impatiently, practically rubbing his cock in Sam’s face, and hissing loudly as his brother licks a line of wetness up the underside of his shaft, making him jump on the spot.

Sam opens his mouth and engulfs Dean’s dick, sucking it back as far as he can, relishing the grunts and moans coming from above him.

****************

Castiel and Crowley, as always, have perfect timing; popping in just as their names are being taken in vain.

Crowley sidles up to the door of the kitchen, open just enough that they can hear voices coming from inside.

_“Really, now? Fine. Probably doing exactly what we’re doing only with less finesse and a lot more guilt. Get on with it!”_

“Less finesse. LESS FINESSE? Cheeky buggers. We’ll show them, come on Feathers.”

Castiel finds himself being dragged from the hallway, the sounds of a perfectly good kitchen counter being utterly destroyed following behind him. “You realise that with their preternatural powers, they will probably be able to hear us, right?”

“Good. I’ll show them less finesse. Trench coat off, now!”


	10. Castiel/Crowley Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments Lost - Castiel/Crowley Coda (Fits between Chapter Seven and the Epilogue)  
> This didn't fit in the narrative of the BB but it needed telling, so CODA! ;) Art by me :)

Over a decade fighting an attraction that makes no earthly sense, and is rooted in nothing more than mutual dislike, frustration and sarcasm has begun to take a physical toll on Castiel’s vessel.

There’s an upside to Jimmy being in Heaven; Castiel doesn’t have to share headspace.

He doesn’t have to force his way into limbs that don’t belong to him, or constantly battle a sense of being watched.

However…

That _does_ mean all the resultant physical reactions this body suffers are borne by no one but the essence residing within.

The Angel has spent a good portion of his existence as nothing more than a thought process held together by the whims of a deity who had a seriously twisted sense of humour when it came to allowing his _children_ free rein to do as they pleased.

Angels don’t possess bodies of their own. They beg borrow and steal vessels to house them whilst going about their celestial business on Earth.

He understands love, he knows what lust is, but up until he snuck into Jimmy’s body and encountered Crowley, the most infuriating creature to ever slither from the pit, Castiel had no real life experience of the urges that come unbidden from a place deep inside that the Almighty clearly didn’t design on purpose.

As an entity with no concrete sexual leanings, as in he actually doesn’t care one way or the other which bits interlock where and how, it’s hard to explain why Crowley has managed to worm his way under Castiel’s feathers, but he has.

Dean and Sam spend the majority of their time these days fighting evil creatures, sending Demons and Witches on their way with whispered words of arcane spells and exorcisms no longer in common use in a Church long since divested of the notion of actual monsters. Their Hunting duties are now laid over their Reaping activities and it leaves little to no time for Castiel to try and broach a subject that he has no real understanding of.

Sam would probably be the best person to speak to but how in the hell would Castiel even open a dialogue?

_”Sam, I am sorry to disturb you, but I have found myself physically attracted to a Demon. Thoughts?”_

Castiel shudders at the very thought of attempting to bring up that little nugget of insanity. Sam may well ask him if he needs therapy but Dean, Dean would out and out offer to bathe him in holy water and get him a CT scan.

The thing is, despite how much Castiel wishes he _didn’t_ feel these things for the Demon, he can’t **stop**.

Crowley isn’t just the ex King of Hell any more, he’s a friend, a confidante, and more often than not lately, he’s been the only other person on the planet who has time for Castiel.

The Angel doesn’t begrudge the lack of free time Sam and Dean have, he just misses their company and Castiel’s not sure if Crowley filled that void by default or if it’s something that would have happened eventually, even without the events that saw the brothers forever changed.

Sighing, lifting himself from the snow covered bench he’s been residing on for hours, Castiel decides it’s high time he confront this problem head on.

He can’t be the only one who feels it. Crowley is nothing but base instinct. He must have sensed a shift in their relationship. Maybe between them they can resolve it enough to help the Angel move on.

*************

Crowley sits in a replica of his throne room, tapping his fingernails against the scarred wood of what is now just a chair.

He isn’t delusional, he isn’t crazy. He knows that he will never again rule Hell, but there’s a comfort to feeling the splinters of this ridiculously huge seat snagging against his duster coat as he tries to work out a way to get past the elephant raging in the middle of the room.

The room itself is actually situated in a very nice three story house in the arse end of nowhere, warded from intrusion by all but a trusted few.

Grinding his teeth and digging his nails into aged oak, Crowley growls into the empty space. “Why? Why him? Years of debauchery and depravity with every creature that could bend in the middle and I choose to fal - fancy some two-bit Angel with a chip on his shoulder and a stick up his arse. Moronic, even by my standards.”

For all his peacocking and prancing when Castiel’s around, for all the times he’s pushed the boundaries of propriety on purpose, Crowley’s not actually okay with this turn of events.

Far bloody from it.

Hundreds of years he spent happily whittling away at humanity, seeping into the most righteous and devout. Corrupting and twisting everything which was once good in a soul is part of the joy of becoming a Demon.

How exactly did he end up not only losing his Kingdom but finding himself attracted to the one being in all of creation who could possibly sow the seeds of goodness in the vacant lot that used to be his soul?

Damn it.

It’s time to fish or cut bait.

He either steps over the line, that invisible one which separates good from evil, despite all the Sunday school bollocks you’re taught as a child, or he steps away and never entertains the idea again.

He cannot keep to-ing and fro-ing.

How do you even date an Angel?

Do you offer flowers and moonlight or do you promise not to decimate small villages in the time you’re not canoodling?

Ridiculous, he’s ridiculous. This entire thing is **fucking** ridiculous.

*****************

It’s only as Castiel bursts into Crowley’s kitchen, being one of the trusted few to have access without a need to knock or turn a key, that the Demon realises he’s already made the decision.

Turns out he couldn’t give a rodent’s furry arse if he’s meant to be into Castiel, he just is, and he’s sick and tired of the Angel denying it.

Although, judging by Castiel’s flared nostrils and disheveled hobo hair, maybe the Angel’s already gotten there.

Crowley slowly lowers his whisky glass, folds his paper, and regards Castiel from beneath his eyelashes. “Problem, Feathers?”

Castiel is pulled up short by the fact that Crowley’s not wearing either his long duster coat, or his suit jacket. He is to all intents and purposes relaxing in his own house. Which shouldn’t be strange to the Angel, but he’s never seen Crowley sans coat, and there’s something quite alluring about him in a single layer; tie still around his neck but loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

Castiel was all ready to start shouting the odds for confusing him to the point of mania, but the image he’s creating is just too - good lord the Angel’s lost his mind - adorable.

Instead of the well thought out tirade Castiel was going to holler into Crowley's face, the Angel finds himself stuttering and stumbling over his words. “We need - I mean - you need - this cannot - **Crowley**.”

Crowley tries extremely hard not to smirk at Castiel because he’s not sure which way this little exchange will go; smiting or smooching, but the vision of Cas stuttering and unsure is quite appealing. “Present.”

Castiel grinds his teeth so hard his jaw aches. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever it is you are doing.”

Crowley steps from behind the kitchen counter, walks right up to the Angel who’s practically vibrating on the spot, and presses into his personal space. “ _What_ am I **doing**?”

Castiel’s upper body leans away but his feet won’t move. He appears to be rooted in place and all he wants to do is zap out, run screaming from a room filled with tension he can’t quite discern but can most definitely taste. “This, what you are doing now, stop it.”

“You came running in here, I didn’t invite you.”

“I - You - Crowley, please.”

Crowley watches the chinks in Castiel’s armour get wider and wider and decides to slip on in when he’s not looking. Pushing forward, forcing the Angel to step backwards until he’s butted up against the fridge, the Demon grins. “Please what?”

Castiel can feel the heat from Crowley’s body almost suffocating him as he lays his hands, palms flat, either side of the Angel’s head.

The warmth and whisky breath make Castiel’s head spin. “This is not right. We should not - “

Crowley’s not about to let Castiel logic him out of a decision he’s been struggling with for years. “We should. Sometimes, _Castiel_ we **really** should.”

Castiel opens his mouth to protest with incoherent words ill planned and not thought through, when Crowley surges forward, closing the tiny gap between them.

He hasn’t kissed anyone in a good long while, but as Castiel’s lips mould themselves to his, Crowley remembers what it was that gave him such a thrill about the whole process. As the Yanks say, making out is half the fun.

There’s a good old fashioned tingle working it’s way from the tips of his toes all the way to his tongue, now massaging the Angel’s, which is surprisingly agile for a being not used to this kind of contact.

As Crowley brings a hand up to grip the back of Castiel’s head, the Angel pushes back, struggles to extricate himself from the Demon’s grasp. “No.”

Crowley allows Castiel to slip from his embrace but spins and pins him with a glare worthy of his mother. “Why **not**? One good reason, Feathers. One valid reason!”

Heaving for breath he doesn’t actually require, Crowley follows Castiel as he skirts the edge of the kitchen counter. “Tell me, seriously. You spend your down time with two brothers who fuck like rabbits in between Reaping souls _and_ saving them, and you used to drink with a Hunter who liked it dark and rough and covered in a porn star moustache. How is what we’re doing wrong?”

The description of Bobby’s proclivities stops Castiel dead in his tracks as he finds himself laughing, hard. Guffawing at the idea of Rufus being described as a porn star. “Crowley, you are a complete and utter dickhead.”

“Okay now I **know** you’ve been spending too much time over here.” Each word is accompanied by a step closer to Castiel, bringing Crowley up behind the Angel’s shoulder. “Come on, Wings. You stopped the apocalypse. One little Demon lover isn’t going to ruin your track record.”

The use of the word lover makes Castiel go pale and Crowley thinks he’s lost him, until he finds himself pinned against the kitchen counter, mouth full of Angel tongue.

Castiel is kissing Crowley.

 _Castiel_ is kissing **Crowley**.

Holy Fuck.

As Crowley’s fingers dig painfully into Castiel’s arms, the Angel finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into the visceral sensations the kiss itself is creating.

There’s electricity; crackling across his skin which is puckering into goose flesh.

There’s blood pumping; rushing along his his veins, filling his ears with the sound of _life_.

There’s a distinct sense of weightlessness; he could quite easily float away and never unfurl his wings.

There’s a rightness.

Well hell, Castiel is officially, as Sam and Dean would say, fucking screwed.

Crowley feels Castiel melt into the embrace, and for the first time in hundreds of years he’s more concerned about another creature than he is himself.

Wonders will never cease.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for 'Moments Lost'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11307882) by [stormbrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbrite/pseuds/stormbrite)




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